


End of Me || First Draft

by scribdyke



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Dialogue Heavy, F/F, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, dismemberment and like burning alive, idk i'll add more tags as i think of them, idk what the tag is for something that's very oc heavy but, it's in the warnings but like, just. you know. be careful if you're sensitive i guess, lots of ocs in this one, we're talking decapitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-01-30 10:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 69
Words: 102,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribdyke/pseuds/scribdyke
Summary: After a spy for the Penitus Oculatus gains Astrid's trust and betrays her, the Imperial forces raid the Dark Brotherhood's last populated Sanctuary. In the attack, Festus Krex, Gabriella, Nazir and Veezara are slain, and Arnbjorn and Hekatah are badly wounded. The aftermath leaves the dwindling Dark Brotherhood, mourning and recovering from their injuries, homeless and vulnerable. Facing both physical and emotional pain, the few that survive must both hunt down the traitor to avenge their fallen Family, and rebuild the Brotherhood from the ashes that remain with one of the greatest contracts in Tamriel's history.Krogan, Paloine, Kardir, Yolskja, Spikes-in-Shadows, Sinweaver and Juno are by @bihaxorus on tumblrHekatah, Akalera, Faedryl, Alestrine and Lileth's ghost are mine (@magisteraryon on tumblr)THIS IS THE FIRST DRAFT. THE SECOND (AND HOPEFULLY FINAL) VERSION IS ALMOST READY TO BE POSTED
Comments: 146
Kudos: 15





	1. One

Falkreath’s forests would reek of burning flesh and death for days. The smell of blood was one that Arnbjorn was used to, but never like this, not like this. Not so heated and familiar, not so much, never this much blood, at least not this much blood of his loved ones. Oh, he had known- they all had known the Empire, the Emperor, sought their destruction and yet...yet none of them, none of them had ever thought it would come to this. Even the most skilled fortune-teller surely, surely could not have foreseen that the long-standing Imperial chase after the Dark Brotherhood would end with both sides equally destroyed, with a dishonoured werewolf and the Emperor’s personal guard bleeding out in front of each other, neither willing to give in, but neither able to make a move.

“You...son of a bitch…” Arnbjorn’s shoulders heaved with every word. He couldn’t muster a more stinging insult, not when it felt like his palm was the only thing between his intestines and the oil-soaked stone floor. “How...dare you…”

Gone, all of them, except for him, and those absent from the raid. There was no doubt...Festus’ heart was destroyed and pinned to the wall behind him, Gabriella’s head severed from her body. Veezara was a reptile...the heat had surely killed him before the blades, boiling his veins until he fell. A sword protruded from Nazir’s chest, still and unmoving as his breath had long since ceased. Hekatah lay on her back, the paths of her tears providing the only glimpse of the gray beneath the red.

He had been too late. Out hunting, alone, unaware of the fate befalling his Family until the scent of smoke had alerted him. The worst had already occurred when he had arrived, bursting through that untouchable door that somehow stood amongst the ruin, bursting into a scene of Imperial agents and fire overwhelming his Brothers and Sisters. Most amongst the battlefield were dead, both Brotherhood and Oculatus alike, but the remaining enemies outnumbered the remaining assassins.

Of the Family, only Nazir and Hekatah had remained, together, fighting desperately. He would have given anything to save them, at least, save someone, but as he tore one man off of the Dunmer, whose leg was shot out from under her by a crossbow, another had plunged his weapon through the Redguard.

From there, his memory was patchy. He recalled Nazir taking his killer down with him, bisecting the man with his final burst of power, and he recalled the vibrant red that had sprayed from their bodies as they died simultaneously. He recalled Hekatah, cut up and scarlet-lipped, reaching out for Nazir’s corpse with weak Restoration flickering at her fingertips. He recalled one of the surviving attackers swooping in to finish her, and he recalled that even though he knew it was too late, he had grabbed her, swept her up in one arm, jumped away, out of the way of the warriors, but when he laid her down her eyes had clouded over and fallen half-shut in death.

And then he recalled that he had turned around to fend another blow and seen the man behind it all and recognized his wife’s Blade of Woe at that smug bastard’s hip, and- like he had in his days amongst the Circle- lost his mind to rage and hate, becoming a wild Beast that had no cognition, no memory, nothing but a great whirlwind of grief and madness until the injuries he sustained were too great to maintain his Form, and he regained his senses surrounded by the dead and on his hands and knees just feet away from Commander Maro, whose condition and posture almost perfectly matched his.

“I...swear on the gods...I’ll kill you…” he felt his strength fading, and Maro’s too.

“Even...if you do...there’s more...our spy...was successful…” The Commander’s teeth were stained crimson with his own blood, yet he grinned like a crocodile at Arnbjorn. “Your leader...dead...password...revealed…”

He tried to say more, but his wounds were great, and he doubled over in pain, grin becoming grimace, and his opponent was too weak, too furious, too embroiled in grief to form a retort. And so they remained there, limbs trembling, engulfed in a conflict that, despite their animosity, despite their iron wills, simply could not end, simply would not end.

Slowly, Arnbjorn released his grip on his side. His axe was nearby. One last act of violence…his wife...he had to avenge her...kill the man who had taken her Blade...

He froze. Behind him...it was impossible, but when he looked behind him, he thought he saw...he thought Hekatah had inhaled. He had seen her die- he had been holding her when it happened. She couldn’t...it was too late, he knew it was too late...

But if there was a chance...even the slightest chance...that one of his Family made it...that his wife’s death wasn’t the end...that those away from home weren’t the only ones left...if anyone, anyone, if Gabriella had miraculously sewn her head back on, if Nazir had risen and pulled the steel from his chest, if in the smoldering demise of the flames Veezara had opened his eyes, if anyone, anyone could carry on...then…

He couldn’t handle another transformation. But he could…he could...he could kill Maro. He had to. He was exhausted, and black spots were forming in his vision, but his wife...his wife…! He had to avenge his wife!

It all happened at once. In one last rush of fury, he grabbed his axe, wielding it with just one ruby stained hand, and launched himself forward, bringing the frosty head down on Commander Maro’s skull, and just in that moment the Black Door swung open and heavy footsteps hurried down the hall into the carnage, and Krogan, the behemoth of an Orc, arrived right at the second Maro’s crown split open and his body fell forward, exposed brain split down the centre and coated in ice. And Krogan stood over the carcass, stared down at Arnbjorn, whose gaze was blank and whose shoulders heaved as he tried to catch his breath, and demanded to know…

“What the fuck happened here?” 

And all Arnbjorn could muster was the word “spy” before the adrenaline abandoned him and took with it his consciousness and he slumped to the floor unmoving.


	2. Two

Krogan had to act quickly. He didn’t know how long the battle had raged, but he was certain that, if the destruction and stench hadn’t garnered attention as the evening had gone on, it certainly would in the morning. And further, Arnbjorn was on the brink of death.

Hekatah- it hurt him to think of her as a resource to scavenge from, but she carried potions on her, probably, given her father’s worrisome nature. He could see her torn and bloodied body- laid away from Nazir’s and several dead soldiers, as if placed there in her final moments.

He didn’t have time to mourn. Her pouches- he needed to search her pouches. He put one hand on her shoulder to hold her corpse still as he rifled through her bags, and then he noticed that despite her wounds, despite her near-closed eyes being clouded and lifeless, her skin was not cold, and he almost felt her move beneath his grasp.

“Hekatah?”

She didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t. She was completely unconscious. But her warmth and subtle breathing was enough to bring him pause. He checked for a pulse. It wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but it was there. So two had survived, at least. His closest Family, the only ones he truly cared for...he still had them. 

But he needed those potions, now more than he had needed before. She wouldn’t mind, not if it kept Arnbjorn alive.

There were four, four small red vials hidden away amongst her supplies. That would have to do. Two for each survivor. A Restoration mage, he supposed in hindsight, wouldn’t have anticipated a need for more than that.

Just to be safe, he checked Nazir and Veezara both for signs of life. To neither his grief nor surprise, both were icy to the touch, and clearly beyond saving. 

So he abandoned those two. He poured the medicine down his Brother and Sister’s throats, and began his quest to find bandages for them.

Things would be simpler if Babette was around, but he had no idea where she was, and her alchemy station had been all but destroyed. Fine. Sheets would do the trick.

He shredded several beds’ worth of the things, what he could gather from the remnants of the furniture, and took another set to cloak Hekatah, who still bore the Brotherhood insignia across her chest. Good thing Arnbjorn had the sense to wear fur armour when he went out on his own.

It hardly mattered; when all was said and done, and he had tied linen around every wound, both she and the wolf looked like draugr, all wrapped in cloth. At least it stopped the bleeding. With some luck, both of them would eventually regain consciousness. 

But they couldn’t stay here to recover. He knew better- it was the first rule of any fight that you didn’t move a badly hurt person. His cognition, however, was overrun by paranoia. So many of his friends had died. He couldn’t risk a second wave of attacks taking the last two from him.

Any moment- any moment someone from town, or maybe reinforcements from the Empire, would interfere. He had to get them somewhere safe.

Morthal. His girlfriend- he had a house built for him and his girlfriend in Morthal. He could take them there...if he could get there without suspicion.

If he could snag a carriage...a carriage would do…

At no point in his life had he relied on or believed in the gods. Not even Malacath, who most of his kind worshipped. 

But the stroke of luck in the lone cart riding through the woods at night, that stroke of luck, perhaps, was some gift from the immortals. From Sithis, maybe, or Malacath, or one of the Three that Hekatah worshipped like a madwoman. 

He didn’t dwell on this divine intervention for long, though. There was no time. No time at all.

The driver, too, had no time, no time to scream before Krogan’s greatsword sliced through him perfectly, and his shoulders slid off his torso. The strike was so silent the horse barely flitted her ears. Sure, she flared her nostrils as he drove her closer to the wretched remnants of the Sanctuary, but remained obedient, uncaring or oblivious to the fate of her master, whose body now lay in the woods ready to be disposed of by wolves and vultures.

Dawn was beginning to peek over the tall trees. Someone- a guard, maybe, or the gravekeeper- would come inspect the wreckage soon. And he had to avoid garnering suspicion as he travelled…

It was macabre, but perhaps if he pretended to be transporting deceased relatives…

Astrid and Arnbjorn used black satin sheets for their room. That would do. The set from the bed, and an extra set from their upended dresser. 

“You two better not get too in character, got it?” Krogan mumbled, really to himself, as he enveloped Arnbjorn and Hekatah’s limp bodies in the swathing cloth. “I’m only pretending you’re dead.”

With a little effort, he secured them in the back of his stolen ride, snapped the reins, and began the journey.

Fact was, he barely knew what he was doing, and if Hekatah had been awake, she probably would have said it was the work of her gods that allowed him to make it to Morthal with neither interference from guards or further injury to his companions.

Krogan said it was fortune, all of it, and maybe some skill on his part, but mostly chance that had sheltered him, and chance that had kept his girlfriend home so that when he knocked on the door, even though it was his own house, she answered.

Idgrod Ravencrone the Younger was her name, a kindhearted, fair Nord whose sight was not limited to the present and whose role as her younger brother’s caretaker had versed her well in medical practice. She was the Jarl’s daughter, and lived with Krogan in a small cottage on the outskirts of her little town. Her face lit up when she saw him, but the joy quickly dissipated when a closer look revealed to her his weariness. 

“Krogan? What’s wrong?”

“Listen, don’t freak out, but...my little Sister and our friend have really gotten themselves fucked up. I did my best to patch them up, but they need somewhere to stay.”

She paused for a moment. “It’s okay. Bring them here. I’ll do my best.”

“Are you sure? I know Joric…”

“I can take care of Joric too, don’t worry. Just bring your friends here. They can use our bed and the guest bed- you and I can sleep at Mother’s.”

Hekatah, small as she was, weighed all but nothing, almost as if she was a strange parcel, or maybe just a bundle of blankets. Arnbjorn, with his hulking form, was surely more suspect, but if anyone saw the nearly seven-foot man draped in black over the Orc’s shoulder, they said naught. 

“Krogan!” Idgrod’s voice was shrill as she pulled away the coverings from Hekatah. 

He looked up, mildly annoyed, in the process of trying to set down Arnbjorn without hurting either the Nord or himself. “What?!”

“These robes...Krogan…!”

“Nevermind that! I’ll explain later! Just make sure she’s stable...I did my best, but when I found her, I thought she was dead.”

Idgrod stared for a moment, before letting out a long, dramatic sigh and inspecting her charge. “You did fine, I think she’ll live...as long as I sterilize the wounds and change out the bandages for something less dirty…you have some nerve, bringing an assassin in here...go fetch me some water and soap and unused rags, and start tidying up the man. I’ll handle the bandages and medicine myself when I’m done with her.”

“Thanks.”

“Hm.” She worked in pointed silence, her back to him. He knew she wouldn’t kick them out. Her soul was a gentle one, and seeing such bad wounds awakened the caretaker in her, but he still felt frustration radiating from her, and she only spoke to him once over the course of her operation, to tell him that the robes Hekatah wore were filthy and she was going to find a nightgown for her, and that she strongly recommended Krogan lend Arnbjorn some of his clothes so the dirt on his armour didn’t spread infection.

Briefly, Krogan’s mind entertained the worst-case scenario. That his true nature would be too much for her, and she would leave him, unable to love an assassin. But no...no. If such coldness was in her heart, she would have turned Hekatah away the moment she laid eyes on the Black Hand.

“Tell me their names,” she finally said when she finished with the woman, folding Hekatah’s ripped and bloody robes. The Dunmer, though still passed out, somehow looked more at peace under Idgrod’s care, the ashes wiped away and pain- at least physical- eased with ointments and potions. 

“The Dark Elf is Hekatah, but you’ll have to call her Hekate or she’ll get mad. The Nord is Arnbjorn.”

“Let me see him...I thought there might be burn wounds involved...the amount of soot on her body...you did a good job cleaning up…”

“Idgrod.”

“What?”

“Are you...upset with me?” 

The question came out more childish than he had wanted, but it was out there now, and there was no taking it back.

Idgrod paused in the middle of tying a knot and inhaled deeply. “We’ll talk after I’m done.”

A pit formed in his stomach, not the raging fury when he had seen his Family, but a new feeling of sickness and dread that made his fingers and feet feel numb, and his heart beat faster.

“You’re...not going to…” He broke off. He felt cold, now, and close to retching. “Idgrod, you won’t…”

“I had a vision. About this. But...I never know what’s visions and what’s dreams anymore. Mother told me if I doubt it…”

“Idgrod.” The call came with urgency. “You’re not leaving me, are you? You don’t think differently, do you?”

“No. I mean- I do think of you differently...I’m going to be Jarl, you see.” She ran her hands through her thick black hair. “It’s just...look, now isn’t the time. Your friends...Arnbjorn, was it? And Hekate. They’re going to need a lot of care...that’s what you should focus on.”

He reached across the bed and took her arm. “But you’re not going to leave?”

“No.”

“Thank Malacath…”

She startled at the religious mumble, but didn’t comment, instead remaining silent again until Arnbjorn was as well-off as he could be. “What horrible injuries…”

“We were attacked by the Penitus Oculatus. There were more in the Sanctuary- more of the Family. But they didn’t make it…Arnbjorn’s wife...I think she’s dead...but I don’t even know where the body is.”

Idgrod exhaled sharply. After pulling a blanket over the werewolf, she swept around the foot of the bed to wrap her arms around Krogan. “I can’t imagine…losing someone like that…”

Krogan took her hand in his, saying nothing, and she pressed her head against his chest. “I don’t intend to die, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Mm.” She put her ear against his heart. “Hekate...she’s the Arch-Mage, isn’t she...Falion mentioned her…she’s a priest’s kid, he said, a Restoration and Destruction specializer. I’ve heard of her- the Nords here don’t like her much.”

“I guess in her days off, yeah, she’s Arch-Mage. She tries to juggle things.”

His lover fell silent, listening to his pulse, and he rested his other hand on her lower back, and then he swept her into a bridal carry and sat down with her in his lap, her arms around his neck and his lips against hers, and they stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, revelling in each other’s presence and Krogan wondered if they had drifted off.

“The Emperor’s personal guards...by the Divines, Krogan, what have you gotten yourself into?” Idgrod said suddenly, jolting him out of his daze, her voice hoarse. 

Krogan looked over the prone silhouettes of his closest friends. “Hell, or something like it.”


	3. Three

The Black Door creaked open, and footsteps tapped on the stone floor. One set, and then another joined, and Hekatah folded the corner of her book, an uneasiness flooding her veins. The steps were heavy...too heavy. Even Krogan walked with more tact. And there were two sets, at least...

“Hello?”

Nobody answered. Instead, a foreign object hurtled down the long hallway and she ducked. It shattered on the wall behind her, filling the room with the distinctive smell of oil. Then a flaming arrow whizzed by, striking the liquid, and before she could cry out, it ignited in a fiery blast that threw her across the room against the wall. The explosion did no harm; she was a Dunmer, immune to the direct effects of fire and smoke. But the blow had dazed her and destroyed a table and shards of splinters had embedded themselves in her skin.

The smog and her vision began to clear and to her horror, she found that the first two intruders were far from the only ones. Dozens had poured into her home, all dressed in handsome red armour that she could only assume was flame resistant, men that anyone who had spent time in the Empire would recognize as the Emperor’s personal guard. The Penitus Oculatus. 

“What the fuck…? How did they…” she rose to her feet, still a bit woozy, pulled her daggers from her belt, and gazed into the main living area to see that in the time she had taken to recover, much of the Sanctuary had been doused in oil and set aflame. “Damnit!”

She didn’t take any more pause, just rushed into the heat of the battle. The Emperor’s elite couldn’t stop her. She refused. She was too fast, too agile, too slick. 

The first Agent stood no chance. She leapt on him from behind and in one swift movement slit his throat. He fell with a gurgling death rattle, and she whipped around to deflect the next attack before sliding out of the way of a third’s sword. 

She then realized she was surrounded. She didn’t know where the others were. Arnbjorn and Krogan weren’t home. Babette was gone too. Yolskja was potentially weeks away. Astrid was out hunting down a new recruit...oh gods. 

That was how they’d gotten in.

Astrid…the thought of her lying dead somewhere...the thought of the woman she so deeply loved...slaughtered...something inside her snapped.

“You killed her, didn’t you?! YOU KILLED ASTRID!” she spat at the nearest Agent. “I’LL KILL YOU!”

And so she pounced, burying her knife in his neck and falling to the ground atop him, and then she grabbed another one and yanked his legs out beneath him, rolling with him so that as he crumpled, his body shielded her from a harsh greatsword strike. 

“We didn’t kill her,” said the man who wielded the greatsword with a sly smirk, seemingly unphased by the fact that he had just been forced to kill his own, and she saw Astrid’s Blade at his hip as he pushed her human shield off of her. “Our spy did.”

He raised his blade again and tried to bring it down on her neck, only to be blasted aside by a Fireball, Festus Krex’ last spell, an uncharacteristically selfless maneuver that cost him his life as a crossbow bolt shot through his chest and tore his heart out, and she felt like hers had been taken too. 

“FESTUS!” Hekatah knew when her magic was no good, but gods, she wanted to at least try. But Festus was gone, and even as she confirmed his heart was splashed across the wall behind him, more Agents closed in. The man with the greatsword- Commander Maro, she knew him from when she had lived in Cyrodiil, before they’d both ended up in Skyrim, he had gotten up, gone somewhere, she didn’t know where, she tried to push through and find him, tried to kill him, but an Agent bashed his shield against her face and she felt her nose break, and another whipped his back with his mace, yet another badly slashing her cheek with a war axe, and she pressed her hand against her breast, imbuing herself with Restoration, before taking a running leap and escaping, ever so briefly, the swarm. 

Veezara was down, he was a reptile, oh gods, she needed to get him to where he could flee, he couldn’t fight in this heat. Glimmering Restoration lit up her fingers again, but the moment she reached his side, an arrow struck hers, and the Agents closed in again, forcing her back, forcing her to use her Magicka on herself as she pulled the arrow from her bones and another from her shoulder and took several deep cuts across her arms and ribs.

There were too many, there were just too many, she was small and fast, she wasn’t meant for fights like this, she needed the upper hand, she needed to hide and pounce from the shadows, she needed space to run and dodge, and even her Destruction was useless, would only fuel the flames that had taken Veezara.

“Grandmother, help me-!”

It was rare that she summoned her Ancestor Guardian but if she wanted to survive, if she wanted to avenge Astrid, avenge the beautiful woman she had thrown her life away for, if she wanted Nazir and Gabriella to make it…

Translucent, half-visible, the spirit of Lileth, the Nerevarine, sprang from her granddaughter and tapped an Agent on the shoulder, and he writhed in pain as poison took him, and Hekatah turned her back on the ghostly woman and made a break for Nazir’s kitchen, for Gabriella’s library, only to find the headless body of the Dunmer sorceress and the remains of her Frostbite spider, and the Agents who had killed them still hungered for more and turned on Hekatah and she raised her blades but she was wounded and she was weeping, and they cut deep, and she heard Nazir yell and took the injuries as they came, trying to at least get to him, at least get to him, but she was too late.

Her calf was struck by a crossbow bolt that shot clean through, like the one that had killed Festus, and she fell, and an Agent grabbed her and shoved her up against the wall and pinned her and he raised his shortsword high and then just as a great clawed hand ripped him away from her, another Agent plunged his sword deep inside Nazir’s chest and it stuck there as Nazir halved him and then Nazir fell and Hekatah tried to crawl to him, tried to save him at least, and then another Agent, another one, how many were there, another one brought a warhammer above his head and then her vision blurred and she felt a hulking figure sweep her up, pull her close against them, and something about them made her feel at peace, and then it was over. Her body stopped responding, her sight went black, and she became dead to the world and for a time, she was aware of nothing, blissfully ignorant of her own misery. 

And then there was the pain. Her arms, legs, chest, stomach, shoulders, it all hurt. 

She felt heavy, like it took too much to lift even a finger. But she wasn’t in the Sanctuary anymore. The ashes, the blood, the grime was all gone. Briefly, she wondered if she had died. But that didn’t make sense…

There were voices...they seemed familiar…one deep and gruff...one lighter and more feminine. Her head ached, but if she focused...no...she didn’t quite understand them. They faded out, and someone approached her.

A hand rested on her forehead. She felt like it was someone she knew...

“Who’s there?” she tried to ask, but what came out was more of a soft groan. 

“Hekatah? You finally wakin’ up? C’mon, rise and shine.” Three fingers tapped her face lightly.

Ah. Now she got it. It was that asshole. 

She mustered her energy and opened her eyes. Things were hazy at first, and then became more defined. Krogan stood over her, the only thing she recognized in a house she didn’t remember, in a bed that wasn’t hers.

He forced a smile. “Hey, she lives! It’s about time. Arnbjorn woke up a day ago, I wouldn’t have expected you to let him outdo you like that.”

Her brow furrowed, memory fuzzy. Questions ran through her mind, but she couldn’t ask any of them yet, not until she pieced together what was going on. He knew, though. He knew. His expression darkened and he stepped aside slightly so that she could see across the room, a heavily bandaged Arnbjorn slept on his back with his axe and Astrid’s Blade laid at the floor at the foot of his bed. 

“The Penitus Oculatus attacked us. Nazir, Festus, Gabriella, Liz and Veezara didn’t make it. Arnbjorn said he showed up right as some cunt tackled you and he saved your life, then transformed and killed the rest of the Agents. He wasn’t much better off than you were when I found you two. You were worse, though. I thought you were a corpse.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Everything that had happened...it was real...any hope she had left was crushed. She had known- she had known when she saw Arnbjorn and how fucked up he was and the Blade of Woe...but she had hoped...maybe it was just a fever dream. But it wasn’t. A sting started pricking in her nose and eyes, and then the tears began to slowly trickle out.

“Astrid’s gone, huh?” Krogan asked.

She nodded ever so vaguely, split lip trembling, and he sighed, briefly taking her hand. “Yeah, I suspected when I saw the Blade...Arnbjorn said something about a spy…but let’s not worry about that yet. You and he have a long road of recovery ahead of you.”


	4. Four

It seemed that he had never seen so much blood. Not before, not since. Oh, there was so much blood that Mara-blessed night, woven into the young lady’s gilded gossamer hair, highlighting her pale moonlit skin, brushed across her regal cheekbones and painting her blooming lips sparkling ruby, adorning her head like a crown and glittering in the stars’ soft shine. 

The corpses around her had been beautifully, barbarically ravaged, dead from a thousand cuts in a thousand places, spilling their lives across the dew-kissed grass, contorted in ways he never thought possible. She stood over the dead, blade in hand, and in her tempting turquoise eyes there was pure elation, at the corner of her shapely mouth a smug smile that took his breath away with the same illusory inhumanity that had slain those at her feet. 

That moment, the first time he saw her, he had known he would marry her. A woman as violent as he, who treasured the art of savagery, but yet at the same time so elegant, so poised, so royal, worlds away from his brutish rampages, a being beyond his grasp, ethereal, alien, almost...from the second he saw her, he was hooked, willing and ready to do anything she asked, anything she needed, no matter the cost to himself, or to others. A daring assassin, uncaring of what others thought, independent and strong, reliable in her contracts, but simultaneously a gentle lover, a caring bride, a woman whose heart was with her Family, as twisted and dysfunctional as it may have been, anyone would have been blessed to call her “wife”, let alone call her their Leader. She was his Dibella, more alluring for the wildness she embraced, his Kyne, who should be at the forefront of any Nord’s thoughts, his Mara, with unending amorousness contained in her evil.

She was the one who had changed him. Massacre was his drug, and for a long time, it was all he was invested in. He had lost his dignity and reputation for it, been disowned for it, lost his place in the long-standing and elite Clan Gray-Mane, with no regrets. But with her- when she joined the Family, when he brought her back to the Sanctuary, he saw things in a new light. She was above all else, but he would be damned to see a finger laid upon any of the rest, for her tender ferocity showed him that loyalty and bloodlust could coexist, even harmonize, and the Family became almost as important to him as her. 

To hold her in his arms again...tell her how much he loved her, if love was enough of a word to express the way he felt...but that wasn’t possible. She was gone now, and he knew in his heart that no matter how much he said ‘maybe she wasn’t really dead’ that it wasn’t true, that she was claimed by the Void, and so were a great many of their longtime Family, and nothing he could have done or could do now would ever change that.

He was drifting in and out of sleep, in and out of memories and delusions. In the background, he could hear the others- the invasive Nord, his irritating Orc Brother, occasionally, from outside, the voice of a child- and their activities. Mostly, he ignored them. Sometimes they wove into his fever dreams, distorting his fantasies of life as it had been. Occasionally he would feel a hand on his skin, or someone changing his dressings, but he didn’t have the heart to fight the intrusive procedures.

He had sat up, briefly, when he first regained consciousness, almost expecting himself to be the only patient in this unfamiliar ward. But there had been one other. His mind had not deceived him back in the midst of the fight. She was motionless, in a bed across the room, out cold, gray flesh white with bandages, but Hekatah had made it. 

That had been a day ago. He had not checked in on her since. He didn’t want to. Her presence, and Krogan’s and Idgrod’s, kept him from his fantasies of world where nothing had changed, where Astrid lived on, where he didn’t have to accept, didn’t have to process that almost everyone he loved was gone, and that above all, so was she. He did not want to see them. He did not want to speak to them. He did not want to care about them. He had ignored them, hadn’t explained anything to Krogan, just wanting to be left to picture the past forever.

But as he begrudgingly let wakefulness take him, he began to comprehend what was being said, and recognized the words as Krogan offering comfort to Hekatah, and the importance of his reveries waned. 

So he opened his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through the windows now. Morthal wasn’t usually sunny, what bullshit. “Fuck…”

“Arnbjorn? Hey, Hekatah’s awake.”

“Yeah…” the bones in his neck seemed to groan as he turned his head towards the other two. Krogan was standing over the Dunmer, whose translucent, red-rimmed gaze had never looked so hollow.

Festus had described her eyes as empty and dead before, soulless, even, and when she wasn’t around he had claimed that he could never tell what she was thinking because she so lacked life. Arnbjorn almost wished the wizard could see her, see how wrong he was then, because only now was the description accurate. Truly, now she seemed lifeless, like a decoy of herself. She was like a statue in a pond, frozen, with water trickling from her eyes, but there was no fountain, no pool. 

Her stare, the only part of her that moved, suddenly shifted from the ceiling to him, and then just as quickly away, and what closely resembled guilt crossed her face briefly. “Arn...’m...sorry.”

What was she apologizing for? It could have been any number of things. Did she even know what she meant? He didn’t know what to say. “’S’alright.”

“Krogan...told me.” She tried to push herself up, with no success. He guessed that she had only just come around. “You...saved me…”

Ah. Yeah. A sense of shame struck him, for what she didn’t know, what Krogan didn’t know, was that even as he had made that effort he had chided himself for it, thinking she was already gone, and that he had acted on instinct instead of a deliberate decision to move her. She didn’t need that information, but this idea she had of him in her head- he might have been a man without honour, but he was not a man without morals, and the thought of her believing he was a better person, a better Family member than he had been stung. The basis of their Family was trust; he trusted her, and she should have been able to trust him, and yet he had almost- almost...left her for dead.

But it would have been selfish to tell her the truth, more selfish than it was to withhold it, and he could feel strong, familiar disapproval from somewhere beyond his grasp, so he just painfully shrugged off the thanks and said, “I’m glad I did.”


	5. Five

The Sanctuary was still alight and simmering when Yolskja came home, golden cinders glowing in the evening darkness. Streaks of marks like lightning marred the crumbling walls, and the Black Door itself seemed to weep rust as its structure fell apart, as the remains of the Emperor’s best sullied its gut. It still stood, but just barely, and she felt her veins run cold.

“No,” she mouthed the word, then shouted it. “No, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this isn’t happening!”

Being a serial killer should have desensitized her. Having torn apart man after man...woman after woman...there should be no sight that brought weakness to the Dovahkiin woman, the night stalker of Windhelm. But when she flung open the Door and saw the carnage, she could not help but wail. Her Brothers and Sisters...dead...and oh, gods, oh gods! 

It was horrible, too gruesome to process, too gruesome to describe. Festus was charred horribly, the skin melted, mingling with the floor, and his heart was burnt and destroyed and impaled and she saw Gabriella’s head but not the rest of her and there was a jagged road of blood tracing around the Sanctuary leading from the molten flesh of Veezara, whose scaley body was red and rough and stiff like leather, to the headless carcass of Gabriella whose fine features were unburnt but frozen forever in the pain of her grisly end to the ice cold body of Nazir with steel determination ingrained in his every inch even to the last. And Yolskja fell to her knees, baying, sobbing, howling, keening, just screaming to the gods and receiving no answer until she couldn’t cry anymore and just knelt there convulsing emptily. 

“So this is what we’ve come to, then,” said a little girl’s voice. 

Yolskja looked up. Babette, the eldest of the Brotherhood, stood over her with sadness in her deep brown eyes.

“It looks like there might have been others who made it out..look at the dried blood on the floor. There’s trails that end without a body, and look…” She held up a clump of silver fur. “I found this in the fist of one of the dead Agents. Arnbjorn was here, but he’s not anymore. And there were hoofprints outside.”

“Hoofprints…?”

“Looked like a carriage. Arnbjorn had to have gone somewhere. And Hekatah was home, but she’s not here...maybe he took her with him.”

Yolskja’s breath caught in her throat. Hekatah...was she alright?

“Krogan was out doing something when I left...I wonder if he’s been back…I don’t know where he was.”

“His girlfriend? Maybe?” Yolskja suggested, barely louder than a whisper. “That’s Idgrod the Younger, in Morthal…so if this just happened he might not know...”

“I don’t know. But that’s probably a good guess...if he’s not here, he’s probably with her. Still...before we do anything else...before we decide on where to go...we should bury the dead. Or burn them, for Gabriella. Falkreath is a good place for them to rest…it’s sort of known for being a burial grounds...”

With that superhuman strength of hers Babette carried out every assassin, leaving the ones who killed them to continue rotting. And then Yolskja was alone for only another accursed moment before she heard a trembling rasp call her name. 

“Spikes?”

The Argonian vampire came into her field of vision, his eyes wide and vacant and his whole scaly self shivering. “H...Hekate...and Arnbjorn...in Morthal…with Krogan...”

His gaze darted about, as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. Yet despite his odd demeanor, he was unscathed, and that lifted some of the weight off her chest.

“I just hope she’s not hurt…” Yolskja loved Hekatah, and if she wasn’t alright...

Spikes swallowed hard and broke eye contact, looking away pointedly, and then became invisible. “She’s not doing well...I don’t know what happened to her...I’ll come with you to Morthal...but I don’t think they’re gonna welcome me...you know how Hekate is since I became...this. She’s so paranoid about Molag Bal...vampires...even though I never wanted to be this...”

“I’m sure they’ll take in what’s left of us.”

Spikes said nothing, but in her mind she could see him shrug, and they said together in broken silence until the night passed and the sun rose as the last of Gabriella turned as ashen as her home and Babette returned holding a small makeshift urn that she tucked away in the rubble. 

“We should find somewhere to stay. Are you ready?” she asked with slow tact. “Or do you need more time…”

“Let’s go,” Yolskja answered hurriedly, croakily. “Let’s just go. Spikes is here too- he’s invisible, come with us, Spikes...he said he saw Krogan taking Arnbjorn and Hekate to Morthal...come on, Spikes, you don’t have to become visible or anything, just come with us.”

“...Fine, I’ll come...” said the disembodied voice. Yolskja gave a curt nod, brushing her palm against her lashes, sniffed, and began walking briskly away.

Babette and Spikes let her gain some distance before following, and as the moons lit their path, Spikes very quietly admitted something to Babette.

“I was there,” he choked on his confession. “I hid. I was afraid. Babette, I...I let everyone die…”

She stopped for just a second. “...I see…” 

“It was the Penitus Oculatus. The Emperor’s guard. They came... killed us all...they had a spy...Astrid’s dead...I didn’t fight. I just...I hid…” he drew an audible shuddering breath. “If I had helped...maybe…”

“You couldn’t have done anything. At least you’re still alive.”

“I left them to die…”

“Sh.”

“Babette, they’re dead!”

“I know. I know...just breathe...we still have each other, and Yolskja...Hekate…”

“Hekate hates me. And- she’s...I didn’t go look, but I heard Krogan say she’s hurt, really hurt.”

“Arnbjorn, he’s still alive. And Krogan.”

“Everyone else is dead...maybe if I had…”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. Just take a deep breath. It’s okay. Cry if you need to. I won’t judge you. You don’t even have to show yourself when we get to Morthal. It’s going to be alright.”

“...They’re all dead...nothing can bring them back…”

“I know. I know.” She fumbled around in the starlight until she found him and rubbed his back with motherly concern. “We’re gonna be okay, though, Spikes. We can pull through.”

She could sense him shaking his head. 

“Two hundred years ago, we almost were destroyed. But we came back. And we can do it again.”

The dirt road suddenly had a spot of liquid splattered on it. And then another, and another. The tears began to flow, becoming visible as they slid from Spikes’ face and fell through the chilled air. “Hekate...I heard her scream...”

Babette bit her lip.

“She was in so much pain...and I just let her...Festus...that old bastard never stood a chance…he wasn’t meant for direct combat…he was as grumpy as ever, but I heard the pain in his voice when he died...” He sounded like he was being strangled. “She’s hated me ever since...I became this...but I heard them fighting Hekate...she was the last one to go down before Arnbjorn...I think she got taken out trying to get to Nazir...I heard her screaming...I heard Arnbjorn trying to avenge them...I heard him threatening Maro...I heard him collapse after killing Maro...and I did nothing! Nothing! I just hid- until Krogan showed up! If Krogan hadn’t arrived, Arnbjorn and Hekate would’ve died too!”

“If Arnbjorn barely finished them off, even with their forces weakened by the others, what makes you think you could?” Babette’s question was calm. “You’re alive, and Yolskja and Arnbjorn and Krogan and Hekate are alive, and that’s good enough for me.”


	6. Six

It wasn’t often that Hekatah felt the need to wrestle with her emotions. She knew her soul, that she was innocent in her affection if nothing else, and she would never reveal her truth. Her devotion was genuine, as evenly and virtuously divided between Astrid and Arnbjorn as Boethiah was between man and woman, and though she loved both, was in love with both, she would rather give herself to Sheogorath than ever interfere with their marriage. She was innocent. Innocent! Those adorous feelings she burned with were locked deep inside her heart, away from all but the Three and the House.

But those feelings, as secretly and sinlessly as they burned, still burned, and for once the flames were painful.

She had given up her future for Astrid, devoted her body, spirit and mind to the enamoring Nord, knowing full well that doing so was cutting off everyone she had in Morrowind, knowing full well that the Morag Tong, that her own mother would become her enemy, but she had done so anyway, because she had been infatuated with Astrid, and that infatuation was just a small seed that bloomed into genuine love, and now...Astrid was gone. As simply as a candle could be pinched out, her beloved was whisked away from Nirn, and left Hekatah an empty husk combusting from within.

Yet as much as she had suffered, the worst fell to Arnbjorn, and by the gods, even as the tears bubbled up in Hekatah’s eyes, she pushed them away, for it was he who had lost his wife, who had loved her more than Hekatah ever could and now suffered more than she, and it was he who suffered the most, more than anyone else who had been killed, more than she, and she couldn’t cry in front of him, she wouldn’t, she didn’t have that right, not when he himself remained strong and unyielding amidst the pain that she could not even begin to imagine. 

She didn’t talk to him. She didn’t even look at him. She hadn’t since the very short conversation they had right after she woke up days ago. It was selfish, avoiding the man who had saved her life, but he didn’t reach out to her, and she felt unqualified to so much as try and comfort him, felt like it would be wrong, even. Her grief and her chagrin mingling together, a combination of the worst kind, paralyzed her and she lay in bed with her gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Krogan was gone again. Out hunting. He had been digilant in forcing her and Arnbjorn to eat, hiding what was probably legitimate worry behind his usual condescendingly sarcastic demeanor. His concern was touching, but his absence robbed her of something to occupy herself with. It was just her and the wolf in the house as Idgrod did whatever it was she did during the day, and they refused to acknowledge each other.

Hours passed of absolutely nothing. She had no idea what Arnbjorn was doing- she did not want to see his anguish. She wanted to forget that he existed, content only with the awareness of his survival, and if she was honest, the awareness of her rescue at his hands, and remain undisturbed as she mindlessly stared at the panels on the walls, at the dust floating in the air, at the beams of light that so rarely graced Morthal.

Krogan was still gone as the sun started to disappear beyond the horizon, Idgrod flitted in and out before finally settling down to read, and just as Hekatah was beginning to float off into what would surely be a nightmarish, fitful rest, plagued by Vaermina and the memories of recent events, there was a knock at the door that startled her awake. 

She saw through a blurry lens her hostess, who set down her book and drew a knife- as if that would be of any help against what resided in Morthal!- and warily greeted the newcomers. 

“Hello~!” said a small child’s voice, and Hekatah’s soul soared. 

“Babette!” she cried out, and Idgrod turned. 

“You know these people?”

“Hekatah!” said another voice, rich and husky. “Come now, Idgrod, you remember me!”

“Yolskja…? Uh, Hekatah…do you-?”

“_You_ fuckin’ call me Hekate. _She_ can say Hekatah.”

“But you know her? And this...child?”

“Yes, please, let them in!”

Idgrod didn’t get a chance to answer. A gorgeous Nord woman brushed past her and almost ran to Hekatah’s side, taking her in a warm, delicate embrace and pressing her lips against her forehead. 

“Yolskja, I’m...I’m so glad you’re alive…” Hekate breathed as she leaned into the hug and kiss. “Thank Azura…”

“So there’s two of you, then, the kid and you,” Arnbjorn grunted. “Is that all?”

“No,” Yolskja pulled away from Hekatah, muttered something, and then cuffed an invisible being that turned out to be Spikes-In-Shadows, whose grand personality was now all but lost, and who darted across the room the moment he saw the little Dunmer in bed. “Spikes is here too.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

“Yeah...that’s who I was askin’ about…cause of her...” Arnbjorn said slowly, and Hekatah felt his piercing eyes on her. Judgement? Perhaps not...his tone was icy, but towards who? 

“I can see him,” said Hekate with acute terseness, stiff, gaze flickering back and forth between the daggers on her nightstand and Spikes himself. Spikes said nothing, almost hollow in his muteness. “What’s his fuckin’ problem? Why’s he acting so funny?”

“Well,” Babette appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “Our Family is mostly dead…”

“It’s not like he was there, so why’s he acting worse than me?” Disapproval of her sudden aggression radiated from the visitors and from their host, but she didn’t care- not anymore. There was rage inside, and fear, and her fingers itched for her weapons. “Well?”

“...The truth is…” Spikes wouldn’t face her, and even though he didn’t finish, everyone understood the unspoken admission. _I was there. And I did nothing._


	7. Seven

Arnbjorn’s words came out a dangerously low growl, like the retreat of the tide before a tsunami. “You coward…”

“Th-there was nothing I could have done!”

“YOU COULD HAVE FOUGHT!” The tangible tension in the air was shattered with the enraged roar as Arnbjorn struggled to rise, reaching for the axe laid on the floor at the end of his bed. “YOU COULD HAVE FOUGHT LIKE THE REST!”

“And done what? Died like them?” Spikes shot back. “I couldn’t have done anything! Babette- tell him-”

Babette raised her hands in surrender and retreated slightly without gratifying the request. 

“Yolskja, come on, there was nothing I could have done, right?”

Yolskja just stared at him.

“YOU COULD HAVE DIED WITH BRAVERY, AT LEAST!” The hot anger washed over everyone like a forest fire as Arnbjorn’s pale skin flushed and his steely gray irises blazed. “YOU COULD HAVE DIED WITH BRAVERY LIKE THE REST!”

“What for? Why die uselessly?”

Arnbjorn forced himself halfway up. “HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU SAY-!”

His intent to kill was sincere and palatable, even as he lost his balance and fell, and Hekatah’s glassy eyes rested on Spikes as if she had just had a realization. 

“You...let this happen?” She touched her own cheek gingerly, where beneath the bandages there were horrible marks that would never fade. “You could have helped...and you didn’t?”

Spikes said nothing. He was looking back and forth between Arnbjorn as he strained himself in vain attempts to grab his axe, and Hekate, whose long-suppressed tears were now flowing unrestrained. 

And then he fled. He turned his back on his Family and ran, and after him shouted Arnbjorn, taunting him, yelling at him that running only made him more of a coward, that he had no morals, that if he ever saw Spikes again he would rip his vertebrae out and make him as spineless as he acted, only stopping when a fit of coughs came over him and he couldn’t scream anymore.

“Arnbjorn…!” Hekatah broke free of her daze to call to him with concern. He held up a hand, silencing her, until he could breathe.

“Er...Sorry…” for a moment- just a moment- his face was soft as he gazed upon the remaining survivors, and then it twisted in loathing again and he resumed the futile attempt to retrieve his battleaxe until Babette, with that ungodly strength, forced him to lay back down.

“There really wasn’t anything Spikes could have done,” she murmured. He lurched again, maybe for her, and she pinned him with her elbow.

Arnbjorn’s thin lips curled. “Did you see the bodies, Babette? Did you see what was done to them? Look at me- look at Hekatah- this is what happened to us, and Spikes fucking let it. I almost couldn’t recognize some of our Family, and Spikes didn’t even try to help. If Krogan hadn’t shown up, she would have died like the rest, and I would probably be dead too!”

“We just would have lost another Brother.”

“BETTER TO DIE FIGHTING THAN LIVE HIDING- oh, fuck...my chest...” insisted the wolf, and then, quieted by his injuries, he signaled his doneness with their conversation by turning his head back towards Hekatah, who was silently crying into Yolskja, and Idgrod, who was standing off to the side and looking very uncomfortable. “Yolskja. You’re fine, right?”

She nodded, running a hand up and down Hekatah’s back. “I mean- physically.”

“Good. Now then...” Again he heaved his body upwards, only to be pushed down by Babette, and in the heat of his dwindling rage he grabbed the girl by her collar and tossed her aside, and right at that moment Krogan returned with a whole stag over his shoulders.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” demanded the Orc. “Why’s Hekatah so upset? Why are you throwing Babette? And- hey, when did Babette and Yolskja show up?”

“Spikes...that goddamn weakling…” Arnbjorn was cut off by another coughing fit, and Hekate raised her head from Yolskja’s arms. “It’s- I’m fine, hamshank.”

“Spikes was at the Sanctuary is what he’s trying to say. During the attack, I mean,” Babette seemed completely unfazed by Arnbjorn’s violence, perhaps only slightly annoyed.

“He hid…” Hekatah whimpered, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “He just...he let this happen to us…and he did nothing!”

Krogan’s whole demeanor changed in a heartbeat. He slung the deer to the floor so violently the hardwood cracked, a shadow crossing his features, and when he spoke there was a tornadus rumble in his voice. “Babette, help Idgrod prepare this thing and make sure those two eat well. I’m going lizard-hunting.”

“Krogan- hey! He’s already left!” Arnbjorn called out after the fuming Orsimer, but just like Spikes, Krogan was gone, slamming the door with such force the whole house rattled. “Damnit…”

For a moment, everyone was silent. Idgrod stared at the floor, Babette became quite interested in her hands, Yolskja pulled Hekate closer, and Arnbjorn fell back into bed with a grunt. Then the little vampire heaved a great sigh, brushed her eyes, and turned to Idgrod. “We had best take this thing outside. Otherwise it’ll get quite messy in here.”

“I...right,” Idgrod studied Babette closely, seeming to come to a satisfactory conclusion, and watched in awe as Babette hauled the deer outdoors. “She must be a vampire.”

“You pick up on things, huh?” Arnbjorn’s words would have sounded like a compliment to anyone who didn’t know him. 

Idgrod nodded. “I will be Jarl someday. Mother reminds me often...so I’ve taught myself to notice everything. I think it’s important to lead well.”

“Yeah?” Now the condescendingness became blatant. The young woman frowned, saying nothing but making her displeasure clear as she followed Babette, closing the door behind her much more gently. “Tch.”

Arnbjorn’s attention turned to Yolskja, who now lay with Hekatah, holding her as if she would lose her if she let go, and stroking the weeping lady’s round face and thick hair. There was a sense of intimacy between the two, Hekate’s fingers tangling in Yolskja’s vibrant auburn locks, gray skin bright against the light ivory of Yolskja’s complexion, and Arnbjorn almost felt as if he should leave, or at least look away. But Hekatah, Yolskja, Babette and Krogan were all he had left, and he didn’t want to let them out of his sight anymore. Not for his own sake- for the sake of Astrid’s memory. She had watched over her Family, jokingly called herself the “den mother”, and now that she was gone, he would protect them in her steed. There was no room for self-centred daydreaming. 

It wasn’t long before Hekate’s choppy sobs quieted, and she fell asleep in Yolskja’s arms, completely exhausted from her wounds and the turbulent emotions running wild inside her.

“Are you doing any better, Arnbjorn?” Yolskja asked.

He looked at her, and in the beginnings of the moons he seemed so much older than he was, washed-out silver highlighting every wrinkle and crevice in his face. “My wife is dead, Yolskja. There isn’t going to be “better” for a long time.”

“...I know. I mean...physically.”

“I’d like to be able to move more,” he sighed. “But I could be worse. Could be better, too, though.”

“I’m so sorry, Arnbjorn. This- this must be hard on you.”

“What gave it away?” He laughed bitterly. “Look, don’t worry about me. I’ll focus on myself. You mind your own business and take care of the others. I’ll deal with my issues on my own. I don’t need you worrying yourself over my losses. So shut up.”

Yolskja didn’t argue. Arnbjorn was not well-versed in social nuance, and he was a stubborn man who would not accept her sympathy. So she was silent, holding her girl, and prayed to whatever gods still smiled on her after all that she had done that things would one day look up.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> body horror trigger warning for this chapter, specifically maggots/eggs in open wounds and self-mutilation

Spikes ran. He ran like he had never run before. He ran, and he ran, and then when he felt like he couldn’t run any more, he ran. He ran from his Family. He ran from his friends. He ran from his mistake. He ran from his past. He ran, and he ran, and he ran. He ran through the brush that cut him, and the burrs that stuck to him, and the vines that entangled him, and the algae that encumbered him, and he ran, and he ran, and he ran. 

He could hear their voices still. The last words of those killed in the Sanctuary…their cries of anger, defiance, hate, fear, and defeat.

He could hear Hekate grieving, hear her cursing, cursing the man who had executed the rest. He could smell the scorched flesh. He heard the thud as her body hit the ground, her final scream, ear-splitting and full of pure excruciation. He heard Arnbjorn’s roar, cracking with the pain of his wife’s death, the pain of his Family’s death, the pain of Hekate’s brokenness laid out before him. 

And he ran. He ran from his memories. He ran from his guilt and his grief, and it ran after him. It grabbed him by the spikes adoring his head, and it snapped them. One, two, three, Festus, Veezara, Gabriella, and then it grabbed the spikes adorning his neck and it snapped them, four, five, Astrid, Nazir, and it irrevocably tore at two more, Arnbjorn and Hekate, maimed and mutilated but not broken, just like them.

Damn it, damn it, damn it all! The guilt that took his horns- what right did it have? Why should he have died, hated and forgotten, when he could have lived and helped? Why did this shame want him to have given himself up like a fish that bites the hook? 

He had done nothing wrong, no, it was the guilt that was wrong! It was Arnbjorn that was wrong! Hekate! They were wrong! Look at them- what had happened to them when they fought! Oh, gods, what had happened to them when they fought…

Arnbjorn, his white hair scorched black, his mouth stretched past its ability, a scar carving through his beard up the side of his cheek, giving him a hateful, unwilling smile...his rough calloused hands red and raw, claws broken, his metal-allure eyes bloodshot, aquiline nose flushed…

And Hekate, poor Hekate, wrapped like a Draugr in miles of linen, ghastly blank gaze staring into something nobody but her could see, ashen lips bearing branches of blades that shattered her face and sculpted the hatred of the Empire into her jaw…

But they were wrong, still, wrong, it was them! How could they be in that condition, and still think he should have fought? That he should have suffered like them? Died like them? The selfishness, the treachery to wish upon him that same end...

We should have died. We should have. If this was what living meant…

Who was we? Hell, who was he?

The Brotherhood was in shambles. If not them, who was he? Spikes-In-Shadows...not anymore, huh? His hands were drenched in blood- his own, but not really, really it was theirs, it was it was Festus’, Veezara’s, Gabriella’s, Nazir’s, even Arnbjorn and Hekate’s, that’s whose it really was, that salty scarlet dripping down his neck and back and down his face, dripping from his hands, from his claws, and suddenly he was starving, suddenly he was craving that blood, their blood, who were they to criticize him, his vampirism, he would give them something to criticize.

No, we can’t do that.

He knew who “we” was now. It was him- just him- and the disconnect between him and himself. It was his body, his mind, his past self, his present self, Spikes-In-Shadows and Hides-In-Shadows, for that was who he really was, just a man that hid in shadows as his Family was ripped apart!

A root caught his foot, and he fell, and oh god, there were footsteps, he heard footsteps, a wolf’s growl, Arnbjorn was coming, but no, he couldn’t be, the man could barely sit up, he couldn’t be chasing Spikes. Or maybe it was Krogan, that brute, that horror, he knew Krogan would be furious, oh gods! He had to keep running, he scrambled to his feet, there was more blood, so much blood! It was in his eyes, he couldn’t see, oh, the blood! The blood! What to do with that blood- drink it! Drink the blood, he lifted his palms to his tongue and lapped it up, their blood, his blood, whose blood? Didn’t matter, it was a way to find him, it was a way to track him, and he couldn’t have that, so he drank it, he drank it and he ran and he ran and he drank it, and he thought about the fear Hekate would feel if she had seen him drink her blood- but it wasn’t her blood, it was his blood! Or was it...he didn’t know, he didn’t know anymore. 

Everything was red, everything was blood, he didn’t know where he was, or where he was going, he couldn’t feel his legs, he didn’t know how long he had been running or where he was running to, just away, that’s all he knew, that’s all he needed to know, he just needed to run away, away from dour Arnbjorn and the loss of his wife, away from mystic Hekate and her excessive love.

Oh god, there was so much blood, he couldn’t drink it all, he doubled over and the blood spilled out, abandoned him, just like he had abandoned them. Again, and again, the blood rejected him, rejected his body, until again he was empty, empty like he should be, rejected by the blood of those he had left behind, and he coughed and the blood rejected him further, and he tried to rise and it choked him, and he bent down until it was all finished, all over, and then he ran. He felt ill, horribly ill, and he thought something might have attacked him, but he wasn’t sure. 

He was cold, and then he was hot, and sweat mingled with his wounds and he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran, he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran and then he ran more and more and ran more and ran more and ran more until he finally couldn’t run, until he couldn’t run anymore, until fever enveloped him and he fell to the streets and his vision swam, he saw the faces of the dead, and then he saw nothing and felt nothing, and it was over.

There was a lot Spikes didn’t know. He didn’t know about the way the guards kicked him as they walked past. He didn’t know about the way Mjoll sneered when she saw him. He didn’t know about the buzzing flies hovering above him, taking delight in his injuries. He didn’t know about the way his body burned, how when Brynjolf found him and put his hand on his shoulder, he recoiled at the heat radiating from him. He didn’t know about the infections, the maggots, the eggs plaguing his open sores. He didn’t know about how even Karliah gagged as she approached the pus and larvae oozing from the lesions. About the way Vex had to leave the room when she laid eyes on him. About the fear in Delvin’s usually playful expression. About the concern in Brynjolf’s world-weary visage. About the way the Guildmaster trembled as she helped Karliah and their resident mage tend to him. About the time he spent comatose, febrile, how long it was. There was a lot he didn’t know, and when he woke, there was a lot he wasn’t told. 

He lay there for a long while before he gave any indication he was conscious. His first thought was that he now truly understood what Hekate and Arnbjorn felt. And then came the self-loathing, and the sensation of karma. 

This is what they had become. This stiffness- the entrapment of bandages wrapped around every inch of his being, choking his skin, choking his scales, the aching of his bones with even the slightest of movement, the crackling of his joints if he so much as shifted, the way his chest cramped with every breath- this was how they felt. This was what he had let happen to them.

He cracked open one eye, with effort. Karliah was beside him. He was in the Cistern. The Guildmaster was nowhere to be seen, but the healer, a long lived Khajiit mage named Sinweaver, and his adoptive sister Juno slept on makeshift cots nearby. 

“Oh, oh, you’re awake,” the gentle, rich voice was like ointment in his cuts. She had always been like a mother to him, and for her to be the first thing in his sight was a blessing of the Hist. “Don’t try to move yet. You...were in really bad shape when Brynjolf brought you here. I’ve never seen Sin work so hard. May I ask what happened to you? Or are you not ready yet…?”

“I…” his throat was horribly dry. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t know?” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”

“That’s okay.” She took his hand, rubbing it gingerly with her thumb. “You don’t have to talk. I’m just glad you’re finally awake...it’s been a week. Since Brynjolf found you, that is. We don’t know how long you were out there before then.”

“Where?”

“He found you right outside the main gate. Whatever got to you must’ve been horrible...almost all your spikes are gone…”

“I know.” The short words were delivered with an even shorter tone. 

She winced, and he felt disgusted with himself. “I...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s fine.”

“Sinweaver and I have been taking shifts. She’ll be glad to know you’ve come around. I can tell she’s been nervous...she won’t stop talking about the last time she saw wounds this bad.” Karliah gave a halfhearted smile and stood, about to alert the Master to Spikes’ consciousness. “Keeps harping on about some old crush of hers who tore the skin off her arms or something...and Juno has been distraught since she came home to this...we got her to get some rest a few hours ago, but we couldn’t even make her leave your side at first.”

Spikes opened his mouth in the closest thing an Argonian could get to a smile. “At least...I still have you guys.”


	9. Nine

Karliah took a moment to observe the Guildmaster and her suitor before delivering her message. Faedryl had probably noticed her, but had yet to take her attention off the difficult lock she had made to practice on. Her lover and bodyguard sat atop one of the many sturdy chests in the training room, legs politely crossed and arms folded, watching Faedryl’s steady hand prod and poke at the latch. For a moment they ignored her, and then, without turning, Faedryl asked what Karliah wanted.

“Spikes is awake.”

The Guildmaster’s pick broke when she heard those words. “What?”

“He’s awake.”

“I heard you fine.” She stood, muscles tense and taut, and then finally looked at Karliah. “Well, I’m gonna go see him then. Vors, can you do me a favour and wait a sec?”

The merc dipped his head in mild agreement. “Of course.”

Even as she made her way to speak with her colleague, the arrogant tilt of her head and confident curvature of her spine didn’t change. She maintained a nearly flawless appearance of calm, although Karliah and Vorstag both knew her long hours spent practicing simply hid her concern.

Sinweaver and Juno had risen from their apparently light sleep and both sat at Spikes’ bed, jumping slightly when they heard Faedryl approach.

“Yo,” she raised a rugged hand in greeting. 

“Faedryl,” he said.

“That’s my name. Guildmaster works just fine, though.” She pulled up a chair. “So what’s the deal? What got you?”

Juno leaned forward. “You can’t just spring that on him! At least ask how he’s doing!”

“No...no...I should tell you...since I worried all of you so badly…” he inhaled shakily. “My Family is dead.”

Karliah gasped softly, covering her mouth with one hand. “No...you mean...the Brotherhood? Delvin’s going to be so upset…”

Spikes nodded slowly, painfully. “More than half of us are dead- Astrid was killed before the attack, and then...it was the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s guard...they were led by Commander Maro...when they came, they killed Festus, Veezara, Gabriella, and Nazir. Two survived the attack- Hekate and Arnbjorn. Then there’s me, Babette, Yolskja and Krogan.”

“Oh, Spikes...” Sinweaver took his hand with her furry paw.

“It gets worse,” Spikes admitted. “I...I was at the Sanctuary.”

“No…”

“That’s not the worst of it- that’s not the “worse” I was talking about. I- I hid. I heard what was happening...and I hid. I let this happen. So I ran...Hekate’s pissed...Arnbjorn wants me dead. He tried to kill me- he can’t get up, but he tried to grab his axe…he said if he ever saw me again he would rip my spine out. He called me a coward. He said I should have died. I- maybe he was right.” His breath started to hitch, coming short and fast, and Karliah flinched. “I broke off my spikes...one for each person who died in the Sanctuary…and two for Arnbjorn and Hekate…”

Juno slammed her hands down on his bed. “Idiots!! Fuck all of them! If you’d stayed, you’d have died! How dare they demand you roll over like the rest of them? Oooh, I knew that Dark Elf cunt would pull some shit like someday...she’s roughed up Brynjolf plenty of times, it was only a matter of time! I knew she wasn’t worth shit, that crap about your vampirism was only the beginning!! Oh, damn it, why did she have to make it?! Why’d she have to survive?!”

Faedryl heaved a deep sigh. “That bitch has been beating up our people for ages now. She’s even had the guts to argue with old Black-Briar. She was never on your side, man. That’s why you’re better off here. The Guild, the Guild doesn’t turn our backs on our own. The Dark Brotherhood is done for, has been since before you and I ever joined here, and it’s time you moved on- they’re as bad as we were before I showed up, and they don’t have me to work my magic and save them. If they’d rather you’d died continuing to fight, that’s their problem. I run this place like they should run theirs: with respect for my workers. They oughta take a leaf from my book. Anyway. I’m gonna talk to Vors about getting you something to eat.”

She beckoned to the man and got up to speak with him, accompanied by Karliah, leaving Spikes with Sinweaver and Juno at his side. Sinweaver was staring off into space, a look of nostalgia in her eyes, while Juno seethed, looking ready as ever to face off with Hekate.

“I’m probably going to go back to Castle Volkihar,” he said after a moment.

Sinweaver jolted and looked down at him. “But why? We have incredible bodyguards. It’s not like anyone could get in…”

“Arnbjorn and Hekate...they’re the kind of people that once an idea gets in their head, they go through with it. I wouldn’t put it past them to track me down. But Hekate’s got that thing about Molag Bal’s vampires. Her religion- Molag Bal is the worst of the Daedra, and especially in her religion. If I go back to Harkon, I can at least shake her.”

A beat of silence followed. Harkon was not a good man, or a man that Spikes truly liked. Those rare folk who accepted the undead would have turned their backs on him, for it wasn’t his condition that made him so horribly undeserving of existence. It was his beliefs, his actions, his relationships, everything about him that he had control over, he had chosen to use in the most stomach-turning ways. Vile, worthless, a worshipper of the Prince of Domination, Harkon almost seemed to invite assassination attempts, and none who knew him would be shocked if his entire Clan rose up against him and slaughtered him. Even amongst his immediate family he was detested, and rightfully so. It was he, actually, who had forced the Argonian into accepting Molag Bal’s strain of vampirism, and set into motion the hatred that Hekate, whose religion decreed that Molag Bal would take any chance to defile her, now treated her former best friend with. For Spikes to take refuge with him... 

“Things aren’t that bad,” Juno spat. “Not bad enough for you to go to him! He’s despicable, the things he’s said and done...if I could put a boot up his ass and a stake through his heart, I would! I’d even worship Boethiah if she’d give me the power to make him suffer forever! You don’t need to go back to him!!”

“Serana’s stuck with him too, even after what he did to her. I might as well go see her. You can come with me if it’ll make you feel better.”

The Bosmer glowered at him. “Fine. But not until I think you’re healed up enough.”

Spikes nodded and sank into his pillows. “I think I’ll be ok as long as you’re around…”


	10. Ten

Arnbjorn felt resentment. That was all he felt these days. He resented Maro for killing his wife and his Family. He resented himself for not being fast enough. He resented Spikes for being a coward. He resented Babette for holding him back. He resented himself, even for being alive, or for being too unwell to end Spikes’ miserable life. 

He raised the axe high above his head and brought it down on the log, splitting it clean in two, just the way he split his enemies. In his mind, he pictured it as Maro.

If he had been just a bit sooner…

He could still see their bodies. It was as clear as when he had first laid eyes on the grisly scene. He saw them in his mind always.

Festus, a hole in his chest, his heart splashed across the wall and floor, pale eyes dull and bloodshot, thin skin melted. Veezara, his scales seared into leather, lips peeled back in a defiant growl. Gabriella, head rolled away from her body. Nazir, his fist still tight around his scimitar, jaw still set, a sword through his chest. Hekatah, crawling, leaving a trail of red as she dragged her pitiful self.

If he had been a bit sooner…

Lumber splintered around him again. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as a body.

His own survival...he was furious about that. Not because he wanted to die; he did, kind of, but he recognized now that Astrid would be angry, and that Hekatah would likely follow. 

But he was never meant to be a leader. Yet he had claimed Astrid’s Blade, the symbol of leadership, out of pure grief, and by that he had made himself her successor, and that was right, for he was her widower, but he did not know what he was doing. 

Another block of timber shattered before him. Another. He was getting sore, starting to ache, and hurt, and he kept going only if because he wanted so badly for it to be a person, a man or a woman or anyone else, not just a lunk of wood- massacre, murder, that was who he was before Astrid, and nothing more, and it might as well be who he was after her. No Tenets, no rules, unheld by his injuries, just contracts and death.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he looked across the bridge to see Hekatah slowly making her way towards him, holding her borrowed robes around herself tightly. Again the scars tearing her lips and cheeks and jaw called out to him, and he remembered that he had almost left her to be crushed beneath a warhammer. Gods, Talos, he wanted to forget that.

“Hekatah.” He didn’t say her name loudly, but he said her full name, the given name that few were permitted to call her by, and she looked at him. Only her distinctive appearance told him it was truly her. All her spunk, all that fight he had hated so desperately when they first met, was gone. The corners of her opalescent eyes glistened. 

“Yes?” She clasped her hands over her heart.

“What’re you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

He knew her. She would have given him that cockeyed smirk and some witty crack about his concern, asking him if he was soft or something. She would have- if things weren’t…but this time she didn’t. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. She just walked over to him, slowly, and lifted her chin, and said “I wanted to check on you...”

“Check on me?”

“You’re out here chopping wood before you’re totally healed,” she chided him, before giving her real reason. “You’re stressed out. Grieving.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“And we’re all on edge...” She returned her sorrowful gaze to the ground. “Are you feeling okay…? You’ve not injured yourself out here, right?”

“I’m fine. Why are you out here? Isn’t it cold?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It is. I- I’m on me way to see Falion. It was Yolskja’s idea, to start getting around some since I can walk now. Don’t be too loud about it...he’s not popular here, and neither am I.”

“Glad she’s taking care of you, morsel. I’ll come with you. Let me sell what I’ve chopped here. Hroggar, was it? I’ve got some wood to sell.”

A tired, downtrodden Nord shambled over, counted out the firewood Arnbjorn had cut, and handed him a fair amount of gold. “Honest pay for honest work.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Arnbjorn turned to Hekatah. “Now. Where was it you were going?”

“Follow me. Be nice to Falion. He has it rough these days.” She added, hushedly, near-silently, “I’m killing Benor for him, once I have him around me finger.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.” She pulled the hood of her robes over her head, began back down the dirt road and across the stone bridge above the shallow, icy swamp water, and Arnbjorn trailed after her, to the very edges of the small, decrepit city, a small house right next to a marsh-ready canoe. She knocked on the door, and then stepped back. “Stand behind me. He can be touchy about new people.” 

There was a beat of stillness, followed by the creaking of the hinges as a Redguard man peered out at them. “Ah, Hekate...and who…?”

“Papa? Who’s there?” 

“Miss Hekate.”

Hekatah gestured to Arnbjorn. Her manner had completely changed, so fully that it was almost unsettling. The light and mischief returned to her like she had been a corpse brought back from the dead. “This is my friend Arnbjorn. Don’t worry; he doesn’t believe the rumours. We’re in the area for a bit, so I thought I’d come see you, you know.”

“Come in. Agni, child, clear the table for our guests.”

The door opened fully, and Arnbjorn caught a little Nord girl darting about the one room of the hut as he and Hekatah stepped across the threshold. They stood aside for a moment, waiting politely, as Falion poured them drinks and gestured for them to take a seat.

“So, how have you been...Arch-Mage?” Falion said the title with bitterness, and with a pause to consume his mead between the greeting and the label. “I’ve heard rumours you’ve been missing.”

It occurred to Arnbjorn that yes...Hekate had a life outside of the Brotherhood, that she was Arch-Mage of the College and for the past two years, those who knew her as an innocent, hard-working young woman must have been baffled as to her sporadic appearances and disappearances across Skyrim.

“I’ve been doing research, so I guess I’ve been missing in a sense,” she answered smoothly, with all the confidence in the world. “It’s Telvanni habit- Mother always said Grandmother Lileth and Grandfather Aryon did the same when studying. I’m trying to improve my Destruction, which of course has to be done somewhere safe, so I haven’t been around very much. I’ve sent letters to the College, of course. It would be much f-” 

She glanced at the child.

“Much easier if Savos was still around…”

“Bah!” Falion burst out with a derogatory sound. “You’ve done better than he has, even if you’re hardly around. And with your restrictions on necromancy.”

“I’ve heard tales of the slippery slope in permitting the stuff. My people allowed it on animals in the Second and Third Eras, but they used that allowance to practice it on other races they considered lesser. Allowing necromancy is asking for trouble,” Hekatah said cooly before taking a long sip. “And I do have people in place, to be fair. Paloine is acting in my stead, and Akalera is very reliable in my absences.”

“Akalera...Yeah, I know her. The alchemist, eh…” Falion leaned forward, resting his chin on his fingers. “I’ve met her...she came around with the Dunmer, Brelyna, was it...yes, I can see her being a good Arch-Mage…”

“Would you come back if it was her?”

“No sooner than I would for you.”

“What about Paloine? Having her around has kept problems with the local Nords down, and she’s been instrumental in some improvements of the College structure.”

“No.”

“I see…” Hekatah tilted her head back and downed the remainder of her drink, and in doing so, her hood slid from her head. Falion’s dark eyes landed on the gashes across her face, and he drew back. “Ah...sh-!”

“What happened?” he asked. She smiled sadly, and with some expression Arnbjorn could only guess was shame. 

“Never seen me like this, eh?” 

“You’re supposed to be incredible with Restoration. Taught by an expert Telvanni, and a priest.”

“I couldn’t fix myself this time…not even with me teachings.”

“What happened?”

“Ah...some rogue thief, ya know...you know. One of those nutty bandit types…but way stronger than normal. He got the jump on me, you see. I was out by meself, so once I passed out, I wasn’t able to heal me wounds. Luckily, me friend here and me brother Krogan were able to find me and bring me here before I died,” again she lied silkily, without Falion suspecting a thing. “But when they found me, it was already too late to fully heal. I’ll have these scars for the rest of me life.”

Arnbjorn flinched, and gripped his own leg, almost vice-like. 

“I see. So a freak accident then. Krogan is a strong man; it’s a good thing he found you.”

“You could call it that, yes.” She grinned, trying to cheer him up. “But I’m recovering, slowly but surely. I’m still not at one hundred percent, but I just need to rebuild me strength.”

“And your friend...I’ve seen him around here for the past few days, what’s his story?”

“Me? I’m Arnbjorn. I’m a traveller.” He didn’t quite have the tact that Hekatah’s slick falsehoods did, or her eerie charm in general, but he had experience making alibis, and Falion took the story hook, line and sinker. “I helped find and kill the bandit that did this to Hekate, but not without some damage done to me. I’ve been here recuperating myself with her brother.”

“I see…” Falion turned his gaze to his little girl as she finished her chores and ran outside to play. “Dark times, then…this...the Dragon Crisis has ended, but the Forsworn grow stronger in the Reach...the Civil War still rages...and what happened in Falkreath...”

“Mm?” Hekate arched her eyebrows. 

“Didn’t you hear? The Penitus Oculatus’ leader was murdered. Horribly. I fear for what’s to come.”

Now her facade slipped, and he saw her grey skin turn a sickly shade, and beads of sweat formed across her forehead. “The- Imperial guard?”

Arnbjorn’s nails dug into his thigh, breaking through the thick wool slacks he wore and drawing red. His teeth sank into his lower lip and there too, he tasted the salty tang of his own blood. Yeah, he had heard.

“They were killed by the Dark Brotherhood in a botched raid,” a chill seemed to run down Falion’s spine, and he shivered. “I thought the Brotherhood was barely clinging to life, but now I don’t know.”

Arnbjorn cupped his hand over his mouth, as if hiding a gasp, and held back a wicked grin. “Who knows? Aren’t they supposed to worship an ancient god of death? Maybe they have some kind of divine help…”

Bullshit. The lie made his tongue sting, as if he had eaten something horribly bitter, and while he followed it with a swig of alcohol, the taste remained.

“Y-Yeah…” Hekatah agreed shakily, her complexion ashen. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see…”

“I’d say they killed the Brotherhood, too, because the papers say the remains of their base were coated in blood and shreds of organs, but none of the assassin’s bodies were found...they said the hideout was only a short walk from Falkreath…”

Under the table, Hekatah’s hand brushed against Arnbjorn’s, falling away just as quickly as he felt it. Was she offering or seeking comfort? Or was it both?

“That’s awful,” she said quietly. And she meant it, too. Just not in the way that it was presented. 

Falion looked at her with a frown, and for a moment, Arnbjorn wondered if they’d been caught. Was her luck finally thinning? Or had he given himself away with that sly smirk? Those burning bronzen eyes of the conjuring magician seemed to set her flesh ablaze, and she flushed under his intense, critical stare. Neither of them spoke, not even when Falion stood up halfway and got uncomfortably close to Hekatah.

“You don’t look well,” said the mage finally, after what seemed like hours of tension, and sat back down. “I shouldn’t have told you such upsetting news. You should probably get back to Krogan’s place. In your state you might catch cold wandering out here, anyway.”

Hekatah’s stiffened shoulders fell. “Ye-yes. You’re ri- you’re right. Sorry to keep you.”

“Take care. Morthal is a dangerous place.”

He saw them out the door, and when he vanished back into his place, Hekatah shuddered. “I…”

“Are you alright? It’s true that you probably shouldn’t be out wandering like this...I read once that when you’re hurt, you can get sick easier. Which I guess means I ought to be careful too…”

Like she usually did these days, she averted her eyes. “Yeah...I’m ok. Are you?” 

He blinked hard. The sudden and forced reminder of everything he had lost...his wife...her missing body...the fact that he wasn’t there in time to help and when he did arrive there was nothing he could do...it was like Hircine’s clawed hands had wrapped tightly around his heart and crushed it.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”


	11. Eleven

“Oh, good, you two are back,” Babette was just within the doorway when Arnbjorn opened it. “I was about to go looking for you!”

“Made some money, visited a wizard,” the wolf grunted, pushing past her and setting down the coinpurse on the nearest table. “What do you want?”

Yolskja looked up from her chair. “She wants to talk about contracts.”

Babette nodded, holding up several scraps of parchment. 

“Out of the contracts I retrieved from- from Nazir...Hekatah took out Narfi, Anoriath and Papius already,” she murmured, leafing through blood-stained contracts with a grimace. “Spikes was kind enough to dispatch of Hern and his wife, and Maluril for us...and Yolskja recently killed Agnis. That leaves Beitild, a miner in Dawnstar, Lurbuk the so-called bard here, Deekus up north...that little cat in the caravans...Helvard the Housecarl in Falkreath, and Safia the pirate captain. We should at least take care of one of these...try to get back on our feet.”

She folded up the papers gingerly, for once showing no delight or pleasure at the sight of blood, and placed them in her pockets with care. “Nazir would love to have killed Lurbuk...he always hated bards…”

“We have a contract on that moron?” Krogan interrupted from across the room, almost with too much enthusiasm, a smile curving up half of his face. “I’ve been thinking about killing him myself anyway!”

Arnbjorn sat down at the kitchen table with a scowl. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Huh?!”

“Don’t you think it’ll be a little suspicious if right after you show back up, he goes missing?” 

“It’s not just Krogan,” Yolskja pointed out. “I’m sure we’ve been seen, too. Arnbjorn has for sure- chopping wood, and walking, and all that, and Hekatah visiting Falion. Say I’m paranoid, but I think it’s better to wait with that contract.”

“I think it’s better to wait with all of them.” 

Hekatah’s brazen declaration turned the survivors’ attention to her. For once, for perhaps the first time since the attack, there was genuine determination in her expression, and she folded her arms across her chest defiantly. 

Babette blinked slowly. “What?”

“As far as we know, the spy is still out there. And as long as they’re still out there, we’re in danger.”

Babette opened her mouth, but Hekatah cut her off. 

“And we still haven’t truly avenged Astrid. I want to kill whoever it was…” her passion faltered, and then reignited. “Whoever it was that took her from us.”

In a sudden burst of emotion, Arnbjorn slammed his fist on the table, rattling it. “She’s right! I’ve been thinking the same thing. My wife is dead, and I want the head of whoever did it! I bet it was that damned lizard! He’s in with the Guild, and they’ve got it in for Hekatah! I bet they told him to rat us out, and he would, the gutless son of a bitch!”

“I know you two are mourning for her. I am too. But I just don’t think finding the traitor is possible, and I certainly don’t think it’s Spikes.”

“If it isn’t him, why did he hide? And act so suspect when you brought him here?”

“I’m not entertaining your conspiracy theories. The Empire isn’t going to take this lightly. They’ll have protected the identity of the spy to the best of their ability. Anything that might single them out will have been destroyed by now, if it wasn’t already. It’s just not possible.”

“Hang on,” Hekatah butted in. “Don’t dismiss me so fast. I had an idea. Me mother is a Morag Tong assassin, remember? The Morag Tong hates the Dark Brotherhood. Has since forever. I don’t really know why, but if I wanted to avoid the Dark Brotherhood, I’d go to somewhere the Morag Tong are legally allowed to operate. But if I was in Skyrim, and I had ties to the Empire, I wouldn’t want to go to Vvardenfell or mainland Morrowind.” 

The vampiric child sat quietly for a moment, and then nodded. “Alright. I’m listening. What’s your idea, then?”

“Solstheim. After Red Mountain erupted and destroyed most of Vvardenfell, Skyrim yielded the island of Solstheim to Morrowind. If I recall, the parts of it that are under Dunmer management are ruled by House Redoran. I can’t say I feel comfortable going into Redoran territory meself, but if I was this person, I would risk it.” Hekatah rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Anti-Imperial sentiment is pretty prevalent in Morrowind, and my grandfather stoked the flames when my grandmother died, and it’s gotten worse since the dogs abandoned us to face the Oblivion Crisis on our own, but it’s probably no more dangerous in Solstheim than it is in Skyrim right now.”

“Wait, hang on a second, lamb chop, what’s your problem with the Redorans or whatever?” one of Arnbjorn’s canines flashed briefly. “Why’re they so important that it makes you think twice about going to Solstheim?”

“I didn’t say it was gonna stop me. I’m just- well, I’m pretty separated from House drama, I don’t know how much it’s still relevant because Mother sort of dropped her Telvanni heritage, but Grandfather Aryon took care of me a lot when I was a kid, and when he and me grandmother were young, there was a lot of conflict between Redoran and Telvanni. One Telvanni magister in particular made a habit of kidnapping and imprisoning Redoran officials’ daughters to sway their votes in House issues, and there was at least one Redoran with a penchant for kidnapping as well. So- if there’s been any quarrels between Telvanni and Redoran recently- me being the granddaughter of two Telvanni Archmagisters might put me at risk or start another conflict. Grandmother Lileth did help out House Redoran, but she also murdered its Archmaster, so...” Hekatah shrugged. “It’s probably nothing, though. Most people would know better than to mess with my grandfather after what happened when Grandmother was murdered, and I left Morrowind when I was a teenager, so it’s possible that my face is unfamiliar. And of course, there might not even be recent conflicts at all. We should still go. There’s a ship in Windhelm that docks in Raven Rock. I’m finally in good enough shape to start using Restoration on meself again. We should leave as soon as we can.”

“Who’s we, though?” Yolskja asked. “Couldn’t we split things up a bit? Babette and I can start on contracts. We won’t make it clear who enacted them, but it’ll be good if we start whittling these down and getting back in the flow.”

“Why not let me take one too?” protested Krogan. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Go to Solstheim with Arnbjorn and Hekatah. I don’t need you catching some hint of a rumour about Spikes and going crazy trying to hunt him down. You already wasted so much energy chasing him when we got here. You vanishing for a night and half a day wandering around aimlessly is bad for our cover, and bad for everything else.” She looked at him pointedly. “And even if you’re angry with him, he’s still part of the Family, and you can’t go around murdering your Brother.”

“Fine, fine, geez...you didn’t have to fucking lecture me…” Krogan rolled his eyes. “I’ll go to the shitty island with the other two. Hekatah will probably do something stupid anyway. When should we start going to Windhelm?”

“If I spend some time finishing up me recovery and Arnbjorn’s with me magic...three days from now.”


	12. Twelve

“We’re almost to the docks.”

Krogan opened one eye. “About fucking time. If it had been any longer, I might’ve made good on my threat to throw you dumb assholes toverboard.”

The sailor winced. “You should wake up your Nord friend. We’ll be hitting land shortly.”

He returned to his duties, and Krogan jabbed his foot into Arnbjorn, who was sleeping nearby in a rather doglike position with his chin rested on his hands. The massive Nord hardly budged, and Krogan kicked him again, harder, until he raised his head.

“What?”

“We’re docking soon. I’ll go find Hekatah. Get up.”

Arnbjorn scowled. “Thank the gods. I hate boats.”

“Me too, don’t worry. At least we’ll have our feet on solid ground soon.” Krogan left their conversation at that as he stood up, wobbling a bit with the tides, and made for the bow of the ship. Like he suspected, Hekatah was leaned on the rails, white ringlets windblown and tangled, almost standing on her toes to watch Morrowind’s shores get closer.

“I’m glad the skies are finally clear,” she said as he approached. “It was so rough the last few days...I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see the coastline…I-I didn’t expect it to feel like this…”

There was a wistfulness to her voice that caught him off-guard, and the cynical jab he had prepared to greet her with faded from his tongue. “Feel like what?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, then turned around, a bit teary, and smiled. “It feels like I’m coming home.”

Krogan had no reply for that, but luckily he didn’t need one. The Northern Maiden bumped her way against the wooden docks of an ash-covered wasteland of a settlement. It was distinctly Dunmer in appearance, with guards patrolling that wore armour made from arthropods, and tawny buildings that resembled crab shells a little too closely for Krogan’s comfort. 

To Hekatah, it seemed, the place was nearly perfect. She took everything in, starry-eyed, and he saw her tapping a foot as she waited for the captain to lower to boardwalk and tie the ship.

The officials of the city seemed less enthusiastic. Standing in their way was a well-dressed, average-sized Dunmer man, his hands clasped behind his back, and his gaze cold. As Hekatah descended off the deck, however, his expression changed from distrustful detachment to mild confusion and...perhaps a bit of unease. 

“Excuse me, serjo.” The words were directed at her. Krogan noticed that his accent differed from hers, and he enunciated much more clearly. 

“Yes?”

“You’re Hekatah, correct? Granddaughter of the current Archmagister of House Telvanni?”

She stepped backwards slightly, and bumped into Arnbjorn, who steadied her with one hand while exchanging an irritated glance with Krogan. 

“I- yes, I am...but I haven’t…”

“He has not set foot in Solstheim. This is sovereign territory of House Redoran, which he is fully aware of. Perhaps he has another conflict with the disgraced wizard and thought it would be better to send his granddaughter to deal with Neloth this time around, rather than risk himself showing up here or send letters.”

Neloth was not someone Krogan knew, and from the face Arnbjorn was making, he was just as confused, but it seemed that name struck a chord with Hekatah. “Neloth is here?!”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “You should know this. He’s lived here since just before the Red Year. Your grandfather Aryon drove him from the Telvanni Council once the Nerevarine ‘disappeared’. He’s been slowly building one of your mushroom towers on the far corner of the ash wastes.”

“I was about to tell you when you cut me off, I haven’t had any involvement in House affairs at any point in me life,” Hekatah interjected. “Grandfather took care of me when I was a kid, but I haven’t even been in Morrowind since I was fifteen, and me Mother left the House. I do know about Neloth, though, the crazy old bastard- Grandfather told me stories about him. You said in the ash wastes?”

The Dunmer interrogating them now looked ready to strike at any moment. “Yes...sometimes his steward comes to town, but never him...but if you aren’t here under Telvanni business, what are your intentions?”

“Nevermind that, now, I need to go find that lunatic. He’s exactly what we need right now.”

There was a beat of pause in the conversation, and then it seemed something dawned on the older mer. 

“Do you...not recognize who you’re speaking to?” If the situation wasn’t one between two nobles who might kill each other at any moment, Krogan would have found the utter bafflement etched into every crevice on the elf’s wizened visage amusing. It seemed that he just did not know what to do with Hekatah. 

She sighed, pouting slightly. “I know I’m a Telvanni, but I told you, I haven’t been to Morrowind in over a decade. I have no idea who you are, I just know that you’re House Redoran, and I would assume a high-ranking member, and while I have the utmost respect for you, muthsera, I really do wish you’d not expect me to know everything about Solstheim just because I’m related to a politician I haven’t spoken to since I was a child.”

The man mouthed something to himself, and then, with an air of apprehension, awkwardly said “Pardon, but...exactly how old are you…?”

“Twenty-seven.”

His face turned ashy and he muttered something in Dunmeris, to which Hekatah responded in kind, and the two exchanged foreign words for a bit. Krogan didn’t comprehend a word, but it seemed things were cooling off, and at the end of the conversation, the man pointed towards the east, Hekatah grinned broadly, and then she began to lead Krogan and Arnbjorn down the pier.

“One more thing,” the man added, now in Cyrodilic. “The ash wastes are dangerous. We’ve had many attacks on the Bulwark from the Spawn of the Red Mountain ash. No idea where they’re coming from, or why they won’t die, but we’ve lost men to those things, so be careful.”

“Of course. Thank you so much, Councillor Arano. I’m sorry for the confusion. Azura, Mephala and Boethiah guide you!” Hekatah waved at him before continuing into the small settlement. 

“Ok, tidbit, explain,” said Arnbjorn in a low voice once they were out of earshot. “What happened there?”

“I’m young for a Dunmer, especially one from House Telvanni. It turns out Grandfather doesn’t give out much information about me or me mother, so a lot of what he knew about me was just rumours, and he thought I was a lot older, and that I worked for me family.”

Arnbjorn frowned. “Is that what he said under his breath?”

“That translated roughly to ‘by Azura, she’s a child’ or something similar. For a Telvanni who is active in House affairs, even once you’re an adult, you’re addressed as a child until you’re roughly two hundred. The older mages won’t listen to you much, and you’re pretty much kept as an apprentice for your Telvanni adolescence. It has nothing to do with the actual biology of a Telvanni Dunmer, since we still reach adulthood at the same time as any other, but it is something someone like me grandfather might use against a person who hurt a Telvanni member under two hundred,” she shrugged. “That age shit is weird and a lot of it is just an excuse for condescending behaviour or instigating conflict, and since I’m so separated from my bloodline I haven’t actually been raised in that culture, but he thought he was putting political pressure on a young girl. Most other Dunmer believe that Telvanni age differently- we don’t, unless you count people like Mistress Dratha who use magic to look young, but it’s good leverage. The rest of that conversation was basically him apologizing and giving me directions to Neloth...sounds like the old kwama has totally lost it over the last few hundred years. Might be difficult to work with. I can handle it, though.” 

“You still haven’t explained why we have to talk to him, or who he is,” Krogan interjected. 

Hekatah tilted her head back to give him one of her genuine smiles, one of the unnaturally wide ones. “He’s real powerful. An old enemy of me grandfather’s and a favourite harassment target of me grandmother’s. He can find our guy. And I know just how to make him do what I want.”


	13. Thirteen

“Fuck this shitty fucking island and all this fucking ash,” Krogan grumbled as he trudged through the reddened coastline. “You’d think an island would be more agreeable, but why would anything in Morrowind be fucking tolerable?”

“If I wasn’t here for my wife,” Arnbjorn growled, running his sharp nails through his beard. “It’s going to take months to get all this dust out…”

Hekatah, who walked in front of them with one hand on a glass dagger, stopped and faced the two, her pale lips pressed into a thin line and her other hand on her hip. “Can you two cut it out? I haven’t been anywhere in Morrowind in forever, and I know you don’t like it, but being back in a place that’s more familiar is the only fucking hint of joy I have right now, so shut up and let me have this.”

“Do you know how many forms of lung cancer I’m getting right now?” Krogan coughed to make his point. 

Arnbjorn was more serious, and stared down at Hekatah with a scowl. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Damnit, Arnbjorn, I know why we’re here, but I don’t want to spend the entire time dwelling on the fact that almost everyone I love is dead! Can you blame me?”

She whipped around with a huff and continued along the wastelands, seemingly unbothered by the wind that flogged her cheeks and forehead with ruddy cinders. Krogan wondered to himself if Dunmer naturally disregarded such things, like their born immunity to smoke and fire, or if she was purposefully ignoring the sour powder that, if Arano was to be believed, may come to life at any point in time. 

He just didn’t understand how she loved this place so much. For hours, all that he could see was miles and miles of rusty nothingness, and ocean water that was opaque with dirt. Occasionally, the distant grunting of horkers caught his attention, but for the most part, all that could be heard was the howling of the rough gales thrashing across Solstheim. Even the sky was crimson, and Arnbjorn’s white hair was slowly turning rufous. Hekatah, however, remained curiously untouched by the harsh climate, thin robes and pearly ringlets flapping wildly about her in such a way that she almost looked unreal. 

A bayful howling echoed across the dry plains as the gusty prairie gave way to sparsely vegetated brushlands accompanied by steep cliffs and drop-offs. The sound was almost one of despair, and yet it seemed so natural, until Krogan finally laid eyes on what it emanated from. A giant insect, the size of a building, or maybe even bigger, with the longest, spindliest legs he’d ever seen, stood postured at the side of one dramatic precipice, a hollow opening in its back and a man, who might not have looked that small if he hadn’t been standing next to a grotesquely large flea, tending to it. 

Hekatah stopped in her tracks. “Oh, me gods.”

“What is that?” Arnbjorn almost sounded as disgusted as Krogan felt. 

“That’s a siltstrider,” their smaller companion whispered, breathless. “Most of them died in the Red Year...I had no idea there were still any around…”

“It’s a what?” Arnbjorn repeated. “Speak Cyrodilic, would you?”

“A siltstrider. They’re a kind of insect...I had- there were pictures of them in the storybooks I had when I was a kid, Grandfather and Grandmother have told me about them, they were used for transportation in Vvardenfell, but most of them died when Red Mountain exploded...I never thought I’d get to see one…they’re so much bigger than I thought they were...” She glanced back at the men, who both glowered at her, and her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I know we’re here for Astrid’s sake, and for...for everyone else. It’s just that...with everything that’s happened...being able to kinda come home, even if it’s not really home...it’s helped me heart some.”

The werewolf said nothing, for a moment, thick brows knitted together, gaze shifting between the fervid elf and the enormous bug with an acrimonious undercurrent beneath the lines of his face, and then his expression relaxed slightly. “D’ya...want to go look at it or somethin’?”

She looked up at him, practically glowing. “Do you mind? Cause I’d really like to…”

“It’s fine. You’re right. You should get to enjoy being back in Morrowind for a bit...Astrid liked you, she’d want you to have this.”

Hekatah’s beryl complexion turned slightly flushed and she hurriedly turned around again to approach the strider. Krogan and Arnbjorn, left with no choice but to follow the only one who had some comfort in navigating the hellscape, trailed after. The creature was even more horrifying up close, with a thick shell and huge black compound eyes, and long antennae that moved independently. Yet despite the undeniable ugliness of the beast, as Hekatah approached, she couldn’t have been happier.

The keeper took notice of her as she drew nearer and stood, a smile flitting across his lips at the pure awe she radiated. “From that look on your face, I’m guessing you’ve never seen a siltstrider before?”

“No…not in person…I’ve seen paintings, but...” She stepped even closer, within arm’s reach of the insect, reached out a hand, and then hesitated. “May I?”

“Go ahead. This is Dusty. I personally trained her from a larva. She’s old now, but she still likes people plenty.”

Hekatah gently stroked Dusty’s side. “She probably doesn’t even feel it, huh?”

“No, I don’t imagine. Even those legendary ash storms in the Molag Amur region couldn’t dent that carapace.”

The man remained quiet and patient as Hekatah enamoured herself with the critter. Many minutes passed of just her drinking in the experience, while her associates remained baffled. 

“Amazing…” She patted Dusty, who bellowed kindly, and politely stepped away. “What’s your name, serjo?”

“Revus Sarvani.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” 

“I’m Hekatah Archundael. Archmagister’s granddaughter. House Telvanni.”

“Mm. That doesn’t mean much to me.”

“That’s for the best, really…”

“I know about the Telvanni wizard just south of here. Neloth? I hope you’re not like him. His steward tells me all kinds of wild things about him.”

Hekatah raised her hands in a ‘I don’t know’ gesture. “Truth be told, I was raised away from House drama. I do know about Neloth, though...Grandfather Aryon and he have some history…”

Revus drummed his fingers on his chin and nodded sagely. “She did mention him having something against an Aryon.”

“He would still be on about that, wouldn’t he…I actually need to find him. Just south of here, you said?”

He arched an eyebrow questioningly. “You do, eh? Even though he’s got it in for your old man?”

“Grandfather,” she corrected him quickly. 

“Right. But yes, he’s just south of here. The giant mushroom. You can’t miss it. You can even see it just a little bit from here.”

He pointed towards a vague mass in the distance. 

“Thank you. And thank you for letting me just come see Dusty. It...it means a lot. Here…” she rummaged through one of the many, many hidden pouches in her robes and handed over several gold coins. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Take care of yourself, Hekatah.” Revus gave another small smile. “Come by again sometime.”

Dusty gave a quiet moan and Hekatah patted her again, and Krogan noticed that there was a glistening at the corner of her eyes. “You too, serjo. I’ll see you later.”


	14. Fourteen

Arnbjorn couldn’t even begin to guess at what had been going on over the past several hours. Whatever appealed to Hekatah so much was completely lost on him, and even to his ignorant Nord eyes, the tower they had spent ages painstakingly walking to was disappointing. It was split into several structures, most small and insignificant, shorter even than the amorphous mushrooms growing around the makeshift courtyard. 

The centerpiece, he assumed, was the main tower, and it was indeed larger and more colourful than the rest of fungus, but the great buildings that Hekatah had described on the boat were certainly more marvelous than what he stood in front of now.

“Two hundred years and this is what he’s accomplished, huh?” Her back was to him, like it had been most of the journey, but her hands were on her hips again. 

“Are you disappointed?” 

“Hell no. Grandfather Aryon’s tower on the mainland is amazing. He really put a lot of effort into rebuilding. I didn’t expect Neloth’s to outdo his.” She turned around and beamed at him and Krogan. “It’s sweet of you to worry, though. Now, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that the big one is the central location. Uh...I might have to climb it.”

“You what?” Krogan leaned down slightly, as if he couldn’t hear her. 

She pointed at the tall stem. “In most Telvanni towers, the upper levels are only accessible by Levitation spells, even when the Empire banned those. Grandfather Aryon says it’s because magisters try to have each other killed all the time. I don’t know how to use one of those spells, though, so if there’s no way up except floating, I’ll have to climb.”

“Do you think you can do it?” Arnbjorn was aware of her acrobatic skills, but usually, she was more of a gymnast than she was a treetop dweller. He would have associated climbing things with Astrid. “Krogan or I can probably give you a hand if you need…”

“From the looks of this, you might be able to just launch me up there. But let’s see what we’re dealing with before we go any further. Neloth hasn’t been on the Council since me grandmother was murdered. He might not be as paranoid as he was when she was Archmagister.” She began up the long, low to the ground staircase leading to a door in the toadstool and tried the handle. “It’s unlocked. C’mon.”

The base floor was nothing. It was simply a very small round pad, in the middle of which was a faint blue light that stretched up from a glowing turquoise circle marked with symbols Arnbjorn didn’t understand towards a jutting wooden half-bridge about a hundred feet in the air. 

“Ah, so this is how he’s handled it…” Hekatah murmured, and before any questions could be asked, she stepped into the light and was gently lifted from the floor to the second level, where she lithely stepped onto the planks and waved up her companions. 

Krogan followed reluctantly, landing with less grace than she had, and Arnbjorn, who knew naught about magic, let alone the Telvanni magic, hesitated before joining them. To his shock, the elevation was gentle, almost pleasant, if a very alien sensation. The force placed him easily, and he wondered briefly if this was what a Levitation spell felt like.

The workspace laid out around them, however, was a far cry from the smooth upswing, and truly was the definition of organized chaos. Arnbjorn could _smell_ the eccentricity on the ancient Dunmer huddled over soul gems and maps, whose robes were bright and elegant but carried an undercurrent of madness and superiority. There was another one in the place, too, one who looked closer to Hekatah’s age, and that one, when he saw the newcomers, heaved a great sigh and popped open a jar of some Dark Elf drink. 

Hekatah winked at that elf, and then approached the haggard mage and stretched up to tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, Master.”

He turned around almost violently. “What?! What do you- now wait a moment...you again?! I thought you _died_ two hundred years ago!”

She said nothing, and he bent over to inspect her more closely. She pulled away, one eye closed in discomfort, and Arnbjorn saw Krogan place a hand on his greatsword.

“Oh, no, wait...she didn’t have white eyes...I think she was a bit _taller_ too...you’re not her, are you?” Neloth shot back up to his full height, and nearly shouted, “_**by the fires of Red Mountain, you must be her granddaughter!**_”

“You done?” she replied dryly. “Hi. Yes. It’s me. Hekatah Archundael. Lileth was me grandmother.”

His whole demeanor shifted. The stories about his conflict with her family were not exaggerated, it seemed. “I didn’t expect to have to deal with _you_. Did Aryon send you? Or have you taken his place in House Telvanni?”

“Calm down, I have nothing to do with your arguments. In fact, the last time I saw me grandfather, I was fourteen.” She folded her hands into her sleeves. “I’m here for a different reason. I need your help.”

“My _help_?” Neloth repeated incredulously. “You’re a very bold little thing, coming to me after all Aryon and Lileth did and demanding my _help_.”

“Cut the shit, old man,” Arnbjorn interjected, and Neloth jolted. 

“There’s more of you? Talvas!” 

The young man sighed and set down his drink. “Yes, Master?”

“What is this?”

“That appears to be a Nord and an Orc, Master.”

“I can see that, why are they in my tower? Didn’t you notice this? Why didn’t you stop them?”

Talvas sighed again. “Well, Master, you don’t ever tell me what you’re doing. I assumed you had business with them.”

Neloth paused. “Yes, I suppose I do keep you away from my affairs...Hekatah! Explain!”

“They’re with me.”

“Well, I have no intentions of helping any of you. Get out of my tower.”

A sly smile crept up Hekatah’s lips, and Arnbjorn recalled that she had said she had a way to manipulate the crazed wizard. “Grandmother~?”

A luminous Dark Elf, crystalline and semi-formed, with bright red eyes, long white hair and a mischievous sparkle about her appeared above and behind Hekatah, dressed as extravagantly as Neloth and meeting his gaze with a smirk. She did not speak- or perhaps she could not speak, but she made clear her ability to interact with the living world by holding out a hand, gesturing towards herself with a finger, and removing a fine ebony dagger from Neloth’s belt from afar. It landed in her palm, and Neloth scowled. 

“How dare you bring her here...she’s _dead_, and she needs to stay that way.”

The ghost, who Arnbjorn had never seen before, but now was relatively certain represented the Lileth that Neloth had brought up, tossed his dagger up and down, not breaking eye contact. 

“Would you rather I send for Grandfather Aryon?”

Neloth wavered for a moment, and then scowled. “What do you want?”

Lileth dissipated, leaving the knife to clatter to the floor, and Hekatah clapped her hands together gleefully. “I knew I could sway you! I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“That’s the problem. We don’t know. All we have to go off of is that they worked for the Penitus Oculatus recently.”

He scrutinized her. “The Imperials? The ones who took over after the Blades...er, died off? Are you sure this isn’t related to Aryon?”

“Why would I be unsure? It has nothing to do with him, unless you turn us away.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean. Aryon and the Empire have..._history_.”

“I know. But that’s over with. And I never had anything to do with it. Grandfather’s actions are his own. Neither Mother nor I was ever involved. If he wants to continue with the Oculatus, that’s up to him. I seek them for a different reason.” Hekatah lifted her chin. “I know you’re a powerful spellcaster. Surely you can give us some kind of lead. It’ll get rid of us.”

“I suppose I could cast some kind of divination...of course, I can’t get anything too specific unless you tell me exactly why you’re looking for this person…?” He sounded too eager for Arnbjorn’s taste, and Arnbjorn flashed his fangs. “I guess that’s a no…”

“A vague divination will do fine, thank you,” said Hekatah tersely. 

Neloth went and took a seat at one of his many desks. “Very well.”

Hekatah turned back towards Arnbjorn and Krogan and raised a finger to indicate that she wanted them to remain silent as they stood around the enchanter. All appearance of rougery, excitement and playfulness about her was suddenly gone, leaving no hint of the impish personality he had grown to befriend. Instead, she was deathly serious, and that was when it began to fully sink in that this could very well be the moment that Arnbjorn learned the identity of his wife’s killer.

Involuntarily, he felt his every muscle grow tense, and he could not tear himself away from watching as Neloth pressed his palms against the table, closed his eyes, and remained there, disturbingly still, as if a statue, for what seemed like hours. He felt Hekatah rest her hand on his arm, perhaps offering comfort, but he could not move, and even if he had been permitted to speak, he couldn’t have.

His heart was pounding in his chest, but not really. It felt more like it had slid down his throat and splashed into his stomach, and there had begun to beat madly, not to a rhythm but to its own wild whims, and cold, cold sweat trickled down his spine, and his extremities prickled, and his mouth was dry, and he almost wanted to crawl out of his skin when Neloth snapped back to life, briefly bearing a much more intimidating aura that rapidly faded into his normal demeanor. 

“Dragon Bridge,” he said. “The Penitus Oculatus Outpost. The second floor is home to the financial records of their operations in Skyrim. Somewhere amongst their records is the name that you are looking for.”

A hot flash of anger ripped through Arnbjorn’s veins and he made a move towards Neloth, stopping himself only out of concern for what a fight might bring upon Krogan and Hekatah. “That’s it? That’s all you got? Hekatah here hyped you up big time, and this is what you produce?”

Neloth didn’t even flinch and answered cooly. “I _can_ perform a more specific divination that would let me discover the exact circumstances of their recent payments, but I _won’t_. Aryon and Lileth can’t force me now; I’ve done what I promised. Now, if you let me borrow _her_ for a few _experiments_, and tell me exactly who you’re seeking, I might be more willing to give you that information, but unless you make it worth my while, I won’t.”

Arnbjorn whipped around and lifted Hekatah up to eye level by the back of her clothes. “Well?”

“I…Arnbjorn...” Her unnaturally wide eyes grew wider.

Krogan’s head swiveled towards the werewolf. “Do you want to lose her as well as Astrid?! There’s no telling what the old fucker will do!”

“I’m finding out what happened to my wife, damnit!”

“Is it worth losing her as well?!”

“He’s not dumb enough to kill her!”

“He’s fucking crazy enough, though! Put her down, sheepdog!” Krogan snarled, and then slammed his fist down in front of Neloth. “You touch her, or Arnbjorn, and it won’t be some fancy warlock in Morrowind or the ghost of a dead demigod you have to worry about. You understand me? I’m not letting you. End of story.”

“If you aren’t willing to surrender her as a test subject, we have nothing further to discuss. Get out of my tower.” 

“You don’t frighten me,” Arnbjorn dropped the elf and drew closer. “I’m going to find the person who murdered my wife, and you’re going to help me.”

“I don’t care about your wife. I did my part. Now leave! Get out, before I toss you out!”

The anger in Arnbjorn’s blood boiled to rage, and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His vision went red, his body launched itself forward, clawed hands outstretched, feeling the beginnings of Beast Form coming on, and Krogan took that as a cue to grab for Neloth’s throat. Neloth jumped backwards, a red incandescence at his fingertips, knocking over his chair, and Arnbjorn roared.

He heard Hekatah yell at them to stop, and Talvas start to say something similar, and then a sharp pain stabbed through him, he hit the floor, and the world went black.


	15. Fifteen

His senses returned to him slowly. As far as he could tell, he was still exactly where he had fallen, and considering the things Neloth had said, that was probably for the best. He lay there for a moment, lamenting his situation, and the humiliating swiftness of his defeat, and he heard Krogan grumble nearby. It seemed the same thing that Arnbjorn had suffered had also happened to the Orc.

And then it occurred to him that Neloth may have used the time he and Krogan were incapacitated to do whatever experiments he had mentioned wanting to do with Hekatah as the test subject, and he bolted upright. He hadn’t truly meant it when he asked her to let him...“Wizard!”

“Oh, it’s wearing off. I didn’t expect it to last that long. New spell, you see…I was trying for a combination of my paralysis and blinding spells, but it seems there was a side effect that caused unconsciousness, or a similar state. It was supposed to be painless, was it painless? Not that it matters. You didn’t scream, which was what I was trying to avoid. My ears are sensitive, and I already have to deal with Talvas yelling.”

Neloth was sitting at a different table, a steaming cup of tea in hand, totally unbothered by the attempted attack. Arnbjorn and Krogan had been left were they’d collapsed, and Hekatah was nowhere to be seen.

“You son of a bitch,” Krogan groaned. “What the fuck was that? And where’s Hekatah?”

The mage waved his hand dismissively. “New spell, like I said. You burly types really don’t listen, do you? And she’s over there on the other side of the tower, talking to Talvas. I think she’s trying to copy that spell I used on you two. I don’t expect her to be able to, not if she hasn’t been raised in the House.”

Krogan rose to his feet with a grunt. “I swear...c’mon, Arnbjorn, let’s get the bitch and go.”

“Yeah…” 

Hekatah was indeed across the levitation tunnel, deep in lively conversation with the apprentice Talvas. She seemed unconcerned, gesturing spiritedly, and Arnbjorn was almost a little offended by that. 

“Hey, beef roast. We got what we came here for. Let’s get going.”

She turned towards him and Krogan, but didn’t make eye contact. “Oh, finally. Master Neloth said it should only last five minutes.”

“H...how long…?” Krogan’s olive skin went pasty. 

“About ten or fifteen minutes.”

The Orc sighed in relief, and then grabbed her shoulders aggressively. “He didn’t do anything to you, though, right?”

“No, I’m ok.”

He released her. “Good. Then let’s go.”

“Right…” A shadow crossed over her face. “See ya, Talvas. It was nice to meet you.”

“Please come back sometime. I can’t stand when it’s just me and Master Neloth…” the ragged scholar begged, clasping Hekatah’s hands. “It’s so nice to have another Telvanni around who hasn’t turned into...that.”

She looked at him expressionlessly. “Yeah. I’ll come back.”

The change in her was stark. All that sprightliness from just moments ago was gone, replaced with apathy and what almost could have been exhaustion. He should have been used to her two-facedness by now, but it caught him off-guard every time, and this time, something about it felt personal.

Without speaking further, not even to Arnbjorn or Krogan, Hekatah stepped off the bridge and let the floatation magic lower her to the ground, and disappeared out the door. When they followed, she had already begun her way back to Raven Rock instead of waiting for them to catch up. 

The air about her was different, hostile, perhaps, and it dawned on him that her uncaring mannerisms might have been more than just fatigue, but it was hard for Arnbjorn to care enough to analyze why. He was tired, and he felt something more than the ash storm stinging his nose and eyes, and he just wanted to go home- not that he had a home anymore.

He was sorry, of course. For asking her to give herself up. Regaining his wits with the possibility that Neloth had actually taken her captive was terrifying. But gods...he was so close to finding Astrid’s killer...the only thing between him and justice was Neloth’s selfishness...and he in no way regretted trying to rip into the man. 

There was no going back, though. He had to work with the divination’s results...financial records...that made sense, he thought bitterly. They could have probably worked that out themselves instead of visiting some crackpot has-been in a fucking shroom. 

The ash wastes were quieter than they had been before. Dusty didn’t sing her sullen songs, the winds had settled in for the night, and the Ash Spawn alleged to hunt travellers did not show hide nor hair of themselves. Despite himself, Arnbjorn almost wished they would, just so he could truly tear into something. 

But nothing happened. Nothing at all. 

He supposed he was lucky. 

The Northern Maiden hadn’t yet embarked on her journey back to Skyrim. They were still able to get aboard.

Hekatah vanished below immediately after paying for the ride. She still had not spoken to him or Krogan. 

The Orc, for his part, took a seat on deck, out of the way of the sailors, and tilted his head back to stare at the emerging moons and stars. Arnbjorn stalled for a moment and then joined him. 

For a long time they remained in silence, as the ship pulled away from the docks and out into the open ocean and the sky turned pink, then purple, and finally a deep, clear navy, free from the ash that had plagued Arnbjorn’s flesh and mind, free from clouds that might cover the vibrant space, free from rain or snow or anything that might make the seas turn. And then, as the moons peaked, Krogan asked Arnbjorn something. 

“Have you wept yet?”

The question startled him. “What?”

“For Astrid. Have you wept for her? All I’ve seen from you is wrath. You’re just angry. And you’re taking it out on us.”

“You’re one to talk,” Arnbjorn grumbled. “Which one of us went ‘lizard hunting’?”

“You certainly tried. Look. Me, Yolskja, Hekatah and Babette are all you got. That’s _it_. We’re what’s left. And what’s more, Hekatah’s the only one who has similar memories as you about the raid on the Sanctuary. She’s the only one alive who can share that experience with you. And you’re treating us all like shit. Hekatah’s cried for the Brotherhood. She’s let herself hurt. And I think you need to do the same.”

The words stung, worse than the gales on Solstheim or the cold in Skyrim, because Krogan was right. 

“I…” his voice cracked. “I can’t process all of it. I haven’t even started trying to think about the others...Astrid being gone is enough. I don’t know where to start.”

“It’s a lot of losses at once.”

“Festus was the worst. Insufferable old man. I...miss him. A lot. We argued all the time, but I liked having him around. He was so fucking uptight about everything,” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Veezara was so laid-back...even when he came home injured, he never complained. Really, I think he was too nice for the job...but it made him happy. Gabriella was one of my beautiful wife’s best friends. I didn’t know her well. I’m sorry for that now.”

He laughed bitterly. 

“I swear I paid a fine to Nazir at least once a month...that man must’ve gotten rich off of me and Festus and Hekatah going at it. He always had a joke ready about everything...I bet he’d have had a lot to say about that island.” The tears overflowed, running down his face into his beard. “And...Astrid...I hate seeing you with Idgrod. It reminds me of how I was with her. And I can’t stand that. I’m sorry, but I hate it so much. I can’t move on. I can’t move past this...how I feel. Not until…”

He broke down completely. “Not until...Astrid is avenged…”


	16. Sixteen

The boat rocked back and forth on the waves, rhythmically, as if to a tune nobody could hear. In a way, it was soothing, but she couldn’t sleep any better than she would have if the boat was still. 

It was probably late, not that she had gone outside to look. She just lay on her back in her cot, a thin blanket over her body, glaring at the ceiling and holding back tears. She didn’t know where Arnbjorn and Krogan were. Half of her wanted to go find them, go yell at Arnbjorn for daring to even think about trading her for information, but she couldn’t, not when she had almost agreed. 

There was no fault in wanting to get even, wanting to punish the person who took someone from you. She wanted it as much as him, more than anything else. Because she, too, had been in love with Astrid. He didn’t know that, of course. He never would. 

But there was still a part of her that was furious, that felt like she deserved better than what she’d gotten, that Arnbjorn had acted rashly and should be treated accordingly. Briefly, she wondered if she had overestimated her importance to him, overestimated their friendship. She had thought they were close, but if it was so easy for him to think about letting her go...she supposed she wouldn’t have died, probably. But it was the principle of the thing, that he tried to make that decision for her, that made her so angry. 

The door to the cabin creaked open. For the first time in hours, she peeled her gaze away from the roof and looked at the threshold, expecting the Orc. Instead she found herself looking into the bloodshot stare of the werewolf, whose pallid face was flushed and whose eyes had that unique clarity and brightness that came from crying for a long time. He didn’t greet her immediately, but sat down on a crate across the room with his hands folded in his lap, and his shoulders slumped. 

A moment passed where she pointedly ignored him, and focused on the rush of the ocean, and then he said her name without the usual edge his voice carried. “Hekatah. We’re friends.”

“Allegedly,” she replied coldly. “Although I’ve never tried to give me friend to a batshit fetcher with a centuries-long grudge against her family.”

She was baiting him, prodding him, trying to get a fight back in him, but he didn’t take the hook. Instead he sighed. 

“I guess you’re pretty pissed at me, huh?” He didn’t sound defensive or upset. Just defeated. 

The reply was sharp as a knife, dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, what gave it away?” 

“I didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t have let him hurt you or Krogan.”

“I don’t believe that.” She rolled onto her side, her back to him. “But I can’t be mad at you, really. I am, but I shouldn’t be. Cause I almost said ‘yes’. I almost let him- if Krogan hadn’t said something to you, I would’ve probably turned meself over.”

Nothing. No response. 

Then, she heard him shift forward, and this time, there was fire. 

“You what?! Have you gone completely cracked? Hekatah, you should be the smart one here! You’re some witch from this big fancy House, you know more about this man than either me or Krogan, and you were gonna just let him do whatever? Are you nuts?”

“Don’t you think I want to know what happened? Wasn’t this trip me idea? Wasn’t it me who suggested going to see Master Neloth? Don’t you think I knew he would want to harm me?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I loved Astrid, dammit. I loved Nazir and Gabriella and Veezara and Festus. I loved me Family. It’s so hard to wake up every day and know that they’re gone! And if I have to endure a little pain to sink me knives into whatever cunt took them away from me, I’ll do it! I’d do anything. I’d give meself to Mehrunes Dagon if I could have them back.”

He recoiled. “I don’t think you should do that.”

“Well, it’s not gonna happen…” she sat up. “I just...gods, Arnbjorn, you saw what happened, you were there, and...some of it’s me fault.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The Commander...I was able to defend meself the first time, but he almost cut me head off. Festus died because he took a moment to attack Maro instead of protecting himself. If I had been better, or if I had died, Festus would be around.”

Arnbjorn blinked. “That’s...surprising. Look, ham hock, we’re a Family. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs. That’s why you got slashed good trying to get to Nazir, isn’t it? You can’t blame yourself for that when you did the same thing for him.”

“I guess…”

He dragged his palm across his left cheek, over the scars he’d gained from the Oculatus. Everything about him was radiating exhaustion, the kind where your body feels too heavy and your eyelids want to fall shut after sobbing. “I just wanted to. You know. Apologize. Cause I really couldn’t stand that old man hurting you or Krogan. I would’ve killed him for real if he had. I value you two more than that. Promise.”

A weak smile tugged at her mouth. “You couldn’t have done anything to him. None of us could. But I get it. I forgive you.”

“Like I said. We’re a Family. And we’re friends. I don’t have much of those left. And besides,” Arnbjorn laid a blanket down on the floor. “Damn cots, too small for me...besides, Astrid liked you a lot. If you handed yourself over to some insane coot in a mushroom, she’d probably come back to life and murder him herself.”

He paused for a moment before settling down. “And then get me, probably.”

Hekatah laughed listlessly. “Alright. I get it. What time do you think it is?”

“It’s past midnight. Go to sleep now. And for Talos’ sake, take a bath when we get back to Skyrim. You look ridiculous in all that dust.”

And as the dawn began to break, Krogan finally entered the barrack, and though both Hekatah in bed and Arnbjorn on the floor were fast asleep, he knew that things had worked out, that they were ok, that her heart, fragile as it was right then, would stay healing, and Arnbjorn, as aloof as he may be, as tactless as he could be, still cared, and, knowing that they would never notice, Krogan let himself smile, just a little.


	17. Seventeen

A month and a half had passed since the deaths of Astrid, Nazir, Veezara, Festus and Gabriella. Most of that time, of course, had been spent trying to recover. Physically and emotionally. 

Some semblance of normalcy was desperately needed. Some hint of what life had been like before everything fell down around them. So Babette had sent Yolskja to Dawnstar, to kill a miner who had separated from her husband in a bitter divorce. She herself had drained the Khajiit caravan’s wizard of blood. And in the meantime, she had played the child, played the innocent, waiting for three gone to Solstheim to come back. She had begun to strike up a friendship with Idgrod, begun teaching her about alchemy, trying to be a friendly face amongst the chaos of Morthal and the chaos of being dragged into Brotherhood life. 

“I don’t know much about Solstheim,” Idgrod said during a rare moment of peace, watching Babette repair Hekatah’s shrouded robes. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s Morrowind,” Babette replied. “Of course it’s dangerous.”

The young Nord touched her lower lip uneasily. “I hope...they’re probably all fine, right?”

“Of course, dear. All three of them are incredible warriors. And I’d like to see anyone try to get between Krogan and the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I can’t believe…” Idgrod shook her head. “I mean, I did have a vision about it. But...sometimes it’s hard to tell when I have visions and when it’s a dream…”

“Does it bother you?” Babette queiried calmly as she closed one tear and moved to the next. “Krogan being an assassin. Being mixed in with the likes of Yolskja and Hekatah and Arnbjorn.”

Idgrod furrowed her brow. “No...I mean, there’s worse that he could be, right?”

“Sure. There’s people even we won’t stand for.”

“Then I suppose it’s alright...I-I mean, the Dark Brotherhood...you take contracts...so surely...you have to be killing certain kinds of people, right? And- I would assume sometimes you’re killing monsters...I know Krogan has boundaries...I don’t know much about the others, though. I’ve met Yolskja in passing and she seemed alright...I mean- she’s the Dragonborn. She saved us all from the dragons...so she can’t be all bad, right? And she seems kind...Arnbjorn’s rather rude. Hekate...I mean- there’s rumours about Hekate. I can’t imagine that they’re true...”

“What kind of rumours?” 

“The same as there are about poor Falion. That she- eats hearts and sacrifices children. Nobody says it to her face, but...they say it when she’s not around. She’s a mage- most people around here don’t like mages. Falion likes her, though, and I guess she’s started getting along with Benor. But something confuses me…”

“The two names?” 

“Mmhm.”

Babette chuckled lightly and moved on to another rip. “She’s very particular about her race. She says most people can’t say her given name properly, so she goes by a less Dunmeris version to save her the shame. Other Dunmer are allowed to use her birth name, and eventually she let the Brotherhood say it too, but she gives her name as Hekate to most people.”

Idgrod fell silent for a moment, shuffling about the house and arranging things that didn’t really need to be arranged. 

“Is she...in love? With the Nord?”

“She wouldn’t be happy if she knew you asked that. She is. She was in love with his wife, too. Astrid knew, but she didn’t acknowledge it. I don’t think Arnbjorn has figured it out yet. Of course, Hekatah herself never tries to act on it. She’s not that kind of person.”

“Poor girl. That must hurt...being in love with two people who won’t ever look at you like that. I can’t even imagine if Krogan hadn’t returned my feelings for him.”

“She manages. With contracts.” Babette let the implication hang in the air without further explanation. “And her own personal targets.”

Idgrod’s cheeks turned pink. “I don’t need to know that!”

Babette smirked. “Don’t mention it to her. She’ll get upset at me.”

“I would never!”

The vampire laughed again and returned her attention to her sewing. Idgrod pulled a book on alchemy from a shelf and sat at the kitchen table to read. Time passed, Babette finished repairing Hekatah’s robes and moved to begin patching up the clothes Arnbjorn wore beneath his armour, but as she began to thread her needle, she heard the doorknob turn. 

Idgrod set her book down. “Krogan!”

“Yup.” The door creaked open, and Krogan entered, followed closely by Arnbjorn and then Hekatah. “We’re back from hell.”

Hekatah squeezed past the two men. “Where’s Yolskja?”

“In Dawnstar, handling a contract. I got back from mine a few days ago. We decided on the miner and the caravan.”

Arnbjorn stalked down past the wallscreens separating the kitchen and bedrooms and laid down heavily on the bed he had been using. “I suppose there’s no point asking how you did it, huh?”

“_‘Sir, sir, you’re a healer, right? My mama was attacked by a wolf and she’s not moving, please come help!’_” Babette grinned wickedly. 

“As I thought…” Arnbjorn sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“What took you so long?” Idgrod interrupted. Krogan gestured at Arnbjorn rudely. 

“He wanted to get all the ash out of his hair and beard before he would come home. There’s these hot springs outside of Windhelm. I think he was trying to live in them.”

Arnbjorn snorted. “Hekatah wasn’t keen to leave the hot springs either. And it’s not like we set a specific time we’d be back- it really was supposed to be much longer. Anyway. We ended up going to see a crazy wizard and we have some news.”

“Well? What is it?”

Hekatah laced her fingers together. “Babette, I need you to break into the Penitus Oculatus Outpost in Dragon Bridge. We need their financial records.”


	18. Eighteen

Dragon Bridge was a small town, consisting of very few families. Entering in broad daylight would be foolish. In a village like this, for once, Babette’s childlike appearance would be unhelpful. 

So she waited in the woods, alone, watching the guards move about and studying their patterns, looking for holes in their security, and tracking the sun in the sky.

Mortals were so simple to deceive. And the body of a vampire was so superior to the body of a human. So much faster, so much stronger, so much smoother, undetectable, unliving, unbothered by the cold or things that would be hindering to a mere man. She was perfect for the job.

It had confused her, somewhat, that Hekatah had assigned the task. The sudden air of authority was unusual for the submissive Dunmer, but things had become clearer when she explained. 

_“Now wait,” said Babette. “I thought you went there to find the spy. What happened that changed the plans?”_

_Hekatah gave one of those wide, wide smiles. “As it turns out, we didn’t have to go on a wild netch hunt after all. The Redorans told me that Master Neloth, an ex-councilor from my House, is living on Solstheim after my grandfather kicked him out.”_

_Idgrod frowned. “I don’t understand any of what you just said, I’m sorry.”_

_“Shut up, it’s not about you.” The elf glowered at her, and she shrank away. _

_Krogan growled under his breath. “Hekatah…”_

_“What? She’s a Nord, it’s not like she’s gonna understand House politics. You two didn’t get it, and you were THERE. Anyway. Master Neloth has history with me family and he’s afraid of Grandfather Aryon. So I was able to pressure him into casting a divination that would tell us how to catch the person hired by the Penitus Oculatus. He told us that if we collect the financial records from the past four months in the outpost in Dragon Bridge, we’ll find the name of whoever killed Astrid.”_

_Babette nodded. “Okay, I get it.”_

_“Arnbjorn and I talked about it on the way back. We think you should be the one to break into the outpost. It was between me and you, since Arn and Krogan are so big and Yolskja is too well-known and easy to see. You’re smaller, and you’re a vampire, so you have speed and strength that I don’t. Neloth said it’s on the second floor. Please hurry.”_

So Babette had left immediately, and arrived in Dragon Bridge on a wonderful, pleasant afternoon that really should have been spent doing something other than lurking in the wilderness.

She would have to sneak in late at night, very late. Perhaps that was another reason she had been chosen; after three hundred years, wasting a few hours was nothing, nothing at all. She didn’t mind, really. She was very patient. 

Still, it had been better when she had been on just a regular contract. It was easier to pretend everything was okay then. That she could come home to a broadly smiling Nazir and a quietly playful Veezara, a jokingly mischievous Spikes, that she could exchange alchemy ideas with Gabriella in her downtime, that she could banter with Festus, laugh at Hekatah, tease Arnbjorn and Krogan, play with Liz, work for Astrid. This mission...this mission forced her to confront everything. That Astrid was dead. Her corpse was irrecoverable. That Nazir, Festus, Liz, and Veezara had been buried. That Gabriella’s head and body had gone up in flames. That Arnbjorn and Hekatah were permanently scarred, both physically and emotionally, and would never be themselves again. And Spikes had been all but banished, unwelcome back as long as the ones who had made it out alive continued living. 

Yolskja and she had talked about it before the Nord left for Dawnstar. It was known amongst the Brotherhood that Hekatah suffered nightmares from the Daedric Prince Vaermina, and sometimes, when the wards placed on her by her father lapsed, the nightmares became unbearable. Those kinds of nightmares had been worse ever since the attack, and what was perhaps more disturbing, Babette often noticed that Arnbjorn, too, seemed to dream of the invasion, and while he was too proud to ask for help, she had seen him, when he thought she was asleep, sit up with tears in his eyes and cradle the Blade of Woe.

And Yolskja...like Babette, she had not been at the Sanctuary when everything went down, but Babette saw the pain in her face when she went to bed, when Hekatah was unmoving in her arms and she didn’t have to be strong, when Arnbjorn had his back to her and she didn’t have her mind on him. 

Then there was Spikes. Poor, poor Spikes-In-Shadows. Arnbjorn and Krogan had turned on him, and Hekatah had long since abandoned the Argonian for her fear of Molag Bal and his vampires. To them, Spikes might as well be dead, and if he dared show his face around them again, he might be dead for real. 

She didn’t know where he had vanished to. He was safe, for now, but it was true that Krogan and Arnbjorn were persistent types, and Arnbjorn in particular, with that brutal rage he always seemed to burn with, would have torn apart the entirety of Riften or any other city Spikes may have fled to if it meant he could get his jaws around the man. Perhaps Spikes would return to his vampiric clan, though he had confided in her that the master was vile, and had forced the disease onto him. Going back to Harkon, however, would keep him safe from at least Hekatah. He had a girl, another vampire, and maybe she could comfort him in this mess. Yolskja had said she wished she could have hugged him before he fled at the very least, and Babette was inclined to agree. She did not hold the hatred for him that Krogan and the injured two did. He couldn’t have done anything...she was just happy to know that he, at least, was out there, somewhere, hopefully healthy, hopefully healing. 

A warm light fell over the Haafingar forests as the air cooled and the moons began their journey into the sky. Soon. Soon she would have the documents in hand, and soon the Dark Brotherhood would have their revenge.

There was another Maro, she had noticed. A young one. The Commander’s son, it seemed, based on the resemblance she was able to work out between his face and the remnants of the Commander’s after Arnbjorn had done him in. He had a sense of arrogance about him, the self-importance that sons of powerful men are often known to be born with. She would estimate him at Arnbjorn’s age, in his early thirties, or perhaps closer to Hekatah in his late twenties. He would be trouble later, she could tell. Young men, young mortal men, especially of mer and human races, they had this urge to prove themselves, and in the wake of his father’s death he would be trying to fill the Commander’s shoes. She would be wary of him. 

The stars and moons climbed higher and higher, and the heavens grew darker and darker, and the younger Maro, to her great surprise, vanished into the tavern instead of the Outpost.

There was a lull in the guard’s patrol. She knew it would happen. And when it came around again, she darted from the woods across the gravel road and into the shadows of the Penitus Oculatus building without so much as a blink in her direction.

The sentries’ paths didn’t take them behind the Outpost. She would enter that way. Her movement was noiseless, slick as ice, and she scaled the side of the office, peered into a window, pried it open and snuck in. Second story, just like the wizard in Morrowind said. 

Nobody lived on this floor. It was almost too easy. She just had to find the documents. 

The room wasn’t huge. There was just a desk, a table with some chairs around it, and a bookshelf lined with binders. Babette crept across the floor, taking each step carefully, and pulled each folder from the shelf until she came across one that was labeled as ‘Finances’ with the past few months written in ink below the title. “Perfect.”

A wicked grin lit her face. It was time.


	19. Nineteen

“So. Out of the files from the last few months, I was able to eliminate things that were just food, clothing, and repairs by doing a little more digging around the Outpost. That leaves seven transactions. These had no other records indicating what they were for. One of them is especially suspicious.” Babette opened the book and pointed at seven names she had circled. “Jarl Siddgeir was the most recent, assuming these entries are kept in chronological order. He’s shady to begin with, and Falkreath is full of bandits, so that could be anything. Then there’s Paloine.”

“Paloine?” Hekatah interrupted. “She works for me, at the College of Winterhold. I haven’t had her do anything with the Empire.”

“You’ve had trouble with the local Nords, right?” Idgrod asked. She stood off in the corner with her hands civilly clasped behind her back. “Maybe she was asking for help since the guard was useless.”

Hekatah scowled. “Maybe. What else is there?”

“The innkeeper in Dragon Bridge. That was the suspicious one. There’s several entries involving her that correlate to the records of buying food and drink, but this one doesn’t. I checked at least three times to be sure, and tore the place apart making sure I hadn’t missed anything. Although...it’s possible she has something to do with Maro’s son.”

“He had a son?” Krogan cut her off. 

“I think that’s who he is,” Babette mused. “I heard him referred to as Maro, and he’s only about your age, while the Commander was in his fifties. He’s got that kind of cockiness rich kids always have. You know the type. Anyway, he never actually showed up at the Outpost. He went to the inn while I was waiting for an opening, and never came out. I don’t have any evidence of the innkeeper being involved with Maro’s family, though. Just a hunch.”

Arnbjorn ran his hands through his beard. “Yeah, that’s weird for sure.”

“Then there was the steward in Markarth. Markarth has been a questionable place for years, especially with the Forsworn on the rise. The one I’m least worried about is Captain Aldis, captain of the guard in Solitude. That’s the heart of the Empire’s hold on Skyrim, so while we should check, I doubt he’s the spy.”

“Astrid wouldn’t be foolish enough to recruit him,” Arnbjorn snapped defensively. “We shouldn’t even bother.”

“I know she wouldn’t. I don’t think he is the spy. But he may have something to do with things. We should cover all our bases. And even if he wasn’t the one, we’re going to have to kill all these people anyway. It’ll be good for us if he goes...missing. And then there’s two former Legion soldiers in Dawnstar.”

“I’m not taking that one,” Hekatah said quickly. “I don’t- are we assigning roles? I don’t know. Either way. I’m not gonna go do murky shit in Dawnstar. No way.”

Yolskja nodded. “Of course. Your father lives there, doesn’t he? The priest?”

“Both me fathers are priests, birth and adoptive. Erandur lives there, though, yes. I sent him a letter. I told him what I told Falion, that I was attacked by a bandit and am healing from that. It won’t look good for me if I show up in Dawnstar again and then these two assholes vanish. Dad might get suspicious, or worry about me, and he’s hard to dissuade when he’s anxious.”

Yolskja touched her chin thoughtfully. “I can handle them. I’m pretty well-known and my reputation is clean, so even if I’m seen near them before they die, it won’t be a huge deal...the Jarl of Dawnstar has it in for them and has threatened them several times. He’ll certainly be the prime suspect.”

“Alright. I’ll take on Siddgeir. Killing a Jarl will require some stealth, and I’m better with stealth than I am a full fight, and while we were in Tel Mithryn I learned a spell and made a ring that will be handy. And I need to get back to the Sanctuary. Me Ebony Blade is still in there, and so is Azura’s Star.”

Krogan shook his head. “You little fanatic. Yeah, you go take him down...I’m gonna handle the steward in Markarth. I’ve got some connections with the Forsworn from a time I was arrested there. I can get them to take credit for his death. What about you, Arnbjorn?”

“I wanna fight the Imperial. I’m no Stormcloak, but I have no love for the Empire either. And it’s their fault my wife is dead. So I’m gonna wring his neck.”

“That leaves Paloine and the innkeeper.” 

“Wait,” said Babette. “Let’s not do this all at once. People disappear in Skyrim, but not with this level of frequency. It’ll take longer, but we should do these one at a time.”

“I don’t like the idea that it’s Paloine,” Hekatah furrowed her brow. “She’s been one of me most trusted mages...I’d rather not go after her as of yet. We’re gonna have to kill all these bastards, and if it isn’t her, I don’t want to kill me friend on a hunch, even if it’s from Master Neloth’s divinations.”

Arnbjorn growled. “We don’t have time to wait. What’s more important, Hekatah, your friend, or my wife?”

Hekatah opened her mouth, offended, but Babette spoke first.

“Arnbjorn! Yes, we do have time. A sudden crop of missing people will raise suspicions. We’re trying to keep a low profile until we can get rid of the threat. We should start with the most suspicious, and hope that it’s one of them.” Babette poked her finger at the page. “I would start with the Dawnstar Imperials. Thinking of it, they’re actively loyal to the Legion, and of everyone on this list, except maybe the innkeeper, the most likely to be somehow related. Even if they’re not the actual target, they probably have some involvement. I would even bet that the actual spy themselves isn’t on this list, but that Maro paid someone to contact them for him. The two Imperial Nords in Dawnstar are under suspicion of such communications with the Empire. Yolskja, I know you just got back from Dawnstar, but are you up for this?”

“Absolutely.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Arnbjorn crossed his arms. “Just sit here and wait? Who knows how long this could take?!”

Yolskja reached across the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “You, Hekatah and Krogan just returned from a very long trip only a few days ago. Please rest. I’m going to leave immediately. I haven’t unpacked yet, and I still have supplies.”

“Before you go.” Hekatah stood up. “I have something I want to give you.”

“Is it a kiss?”

Arnbjorn rolled his eyes, and Hekatah blushed. 

“That too, but me grandmother’s spirit stole something from Neloth while I was visiting. It’s a dagger.” She pulled the weapon from her sleeve. “I put a paralysis spell on it. Use it to keep the suspects from moving while you interrogate them.”

Yolskja plucked the knife from the Dunmer’s slender fingers. “I like it, but I want the kiss more.”

“Fine.” Hekatah stood on her toes and pressed her lips against Yolskja’s, leaving a smudge of lavender gloss on the Nord’s mouth. “Stay safe, okay?”

“Of course, sunshine.” Yolskja ran a hand through Hekatah’s thick white ringlets. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

Arnbjorn kicked the table leg. “Get goin’, you fucking flirt.”

“Fine, fine. See ya later.” Yolskja left with a satchel over her shoulder and a smile, and Arnbjorn sank back against his chair with a low rumble in his throat. 

“We really don’t have time for you two to hit on each other,” he grumbled. Hekatah side-eyed him. 

“It was only a few seconds longer than just giving her the dagger.”

“Yeah, because I interrupted you.”

A shadow of hurt flitted across the Dunmer’s face, and Arnbjorn sighed. 

“Sorry, tidbit. I’m just…you know. Still...sorry.”

“It’s alright. I get it. But...things are rough for all of us, you know. So I don’t think there’s harm in me having a moment to feel loved. And it’s just a casual thing anyway. We’re not getting married or anything.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry or anything. I get it.” Hekatah walked down the small set of stairs connecting the parlor and kitchen to the bedroom and flopped down on her bed. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get the bastard.”

“Yeah. Sure.”


	20. Twenty

The wilderness surrounding Dawnstar was bitter cold, icy and harsh. Even without the nightmares that had plagued it for months four years ago, it was an unwelcoming and troubled place. Death seemed to come for its people regularly...of course, Yolskja knew who was behind each and every killing. 

Frigid squalls came in from the Sea of Ghosts that bit through her thick fur armour and snapped at her bones. There was little cover along the shoreline, as the forests were only found further inland. Seeking shelter, and a place to set up camp, amongst the rocky cliff faces was her best bet. If she could find a small cave or an enclave in the stone walls, then she could work with that. 

“I know I’m a Nord, but this is too much damn snow,” she muttered, shuffling through the thick white powder. A gust of wind picked up and whipped her long auburn hair around her, and she pushed the strands back behind her ears. The sun was hidden behind clouds, casting little light on the gray landscape, and Yolskja found herself regretting that she chose to come back to the glacial Pale Hold so quickly. “It could be days before I get an opportunity…”

“Hail, Dragonborn!”

“No way…Akatosh still has a soft spot for me, I guess,” she said under her breath, before turning towards the clear, stern voice. A finely dressed Nord with well-kempt silver hair and deep lines on her grim face approached, and behind her walked a bald man, also a Nord, in heavy Legion armour. “Brina. Horik. An honour.”

“What brings you to Dawnstar, Dovahkiin? It’s not a good time,” the woman said. Her tone was neutral, but her gaze was aloof.

“What’s going on?”

Brina shook her head sadly. “Skald is more angry than ever. One of the miners was found dead, probably in relation to her divorce. The death of the Commander of the Penitus Oculatus has everyone on edge. And if you’ve come to see the priest, he’s been worried sick about his daughter for the past month.”

“What happened to his kid?”

“He got a letter from her saying a rogue cut her up real bad. Says she’s staying with her brother, but she didn’t tell him where that was, so he can’t find her to visit. I guess it’s fair that he’s concerned, considering everything that’s happened here and in Falkreath. But he’s been holed up in that old tower, praying. Absolutely useless to everyone else.”

“Damn.” Yolskja shifted her weight, and made a mental note to tell Hekatah to go see her father. “And you two are just out here alone?”

“Could say the same to you,” grunted Brina’s bodyguard. 

“I’m Dragonborn. I can take care of myself if I run across anything foul. You two are mortal. And it looks like a storm might be coming in from the ocean today.” She knitted her brows. “Besides, it’s rare that I see you two this far from Dawnstar. Are you avoiding Skald?”

Brina eyed her cooly. “That’s not a question I like coming from you. Didn’t you used to work for Ulfric?”

“Oh!” Yolskja exclaimed, and waved her hand dismissively. “Only when I was too poor to really explore. I have no love for the man. I’m sure you don’t go to Windhelm, but if you ever do, try Sadri’s Used Wares. The couple there know me well and can vouch for my loyalty to the Empire.”

“So you’re not a guard anymore, then?”

“Divines, no! I quit as soon as I could. I make my coin adventuring and treasure hunting now. Sometimes I take odd jobs, do work for certain Jarls- I’ve helped clear out bandits for High Queen Elisif, taken care of vampires for Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, stuff like that. It’s a pretty good gig, honestly. I think the most dangerous thing I’ve done was taking care of necromancers in Solitude. You can ask the Jarls about me if you want. I might even still have some notes from them...”

She opened her pouch and began rummaging around. Horik’s washed-out brown stare looked her up and down, and then he looked at Brina. 

“Here.” Yolskja handed him a crumpled piece of parchment. “This is from Queen Elisif. It’s about the bandit camps I destroyed. If that doesn’t suffice, I might have some more.”

He took it suspiciously, and unfurled it. She was telling the truth. “I guess. Brina?”

Brina plucked the letter from her guard and read it quickly. “Hm. Yolskja, you might be interested in something we’ve been asked about then. Jarl Elisif...High Queen, I mean. She didn’t mention anything about Dawnstar, did she?”

“No, why?”

“Well, the Empire has been trying to weed out the rest of the Dark Brotherhood,” Brina said, giving the paper back to its owner. “You know about the Dark Brotherhood, of course. It’s all people have been talking about since Falkreath.”

“Yeah, I read about it,” Yolskja nodded. “The Penitus Oculatus raided a Sanctuary in Falkreath, but they were all killed and the Brotherhood wasn’t found. It’s been in the back of my mind ever since I found out. I admit, even I don’t feel quite as safe travelling now. Although I suppose nothing I’ve done should warrant an assassin coming for me...”

“Falkreath isn’t the only place they might have been hiding. Before he was killed, Commander Maro offered Horik and I a fair amount of money to investigate rumours of a Black Door in The Pale. He’s dead, of course, but I can’t rest easy with the idea of that lot being so close to my home.”

Yolskja bit her lip and frowned. Her heart was beating wildly, but she showed no sign of comprehension, let alone the glee of a potential new home or the great satisfaction in having so quickly accomplished her mission. Instead she tilted her lovely head to the side with innocent confusion, and questioned further. “A Black Door?”

“They’re the entrances to a Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. They’re enchanted doors that only open if you have a secret passcode. Commander Maro was able to obtain the code to the Falkreath hideout, but he couldn’t even find this one. We finally came across it a few hours ago, after months of searching, and we’re trying to find any evidence of activity near it.”

The red-haired Nord inhaled deeply, as if steeling herself, and then dipped her head firmly. “Okay. I can help. I want to see this Black Door, though. I want to know what we’re looking at, in case there’s any more in Skyrim and I find one travelling. If there’s more than one Sanctuary, that would explain why there hasn’t been any sign of the Brotherhood since Falkreath…”

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” Brina said approvingly. “No wonder Elisif and Idgrod Ravencrone like you. Follow us, and be on your guard.”

She turned around and began to leave the way she had come, Horik hovering beside her, and Yolskja walked after them. As they walked, the young woman took the time to commit her surroundings to memory, each and every landmark that might help her return to the alleged Sanctuary later. The idea that there was somewhere she could move her Family to excited her, if only she could learn the entrance word…

They did not speak as they travelled. The sun began to peer out from behind the clouds, and the newfound warmth in Yolskja’s heart spread through the rest of her body. 

Brina led her down the coastline, back in towards the city and harbor, and then into a sheltered part of the bluffs that, while surely not visible from Dawnstar, provided a clear view of the town. There, shielded both from prying eyes and the elements, was a Black Door. Brina stood with Horik, inspecting it, and while her back was to Yolskja, she drew the dagger Hekatah had given her. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, every hair stood on end, and she felt her breath become rapid and shaky.

“You two don’t know the password, right?”

“No...are you alright? I know that was quite the hike.”

“Yeah...I’m good. Did Maro pay you two for anything other than this?”

“No…? What’s gotten into you all of a su-!”

She never had a chance to finish. The dagger buried itself in the back of her neck, and she fell forward. Horik’s sword jumped into his hand, but no sooner had he drawn it than the knife found his throat and blood as red as Yolskja’s hair burst forth, spraying Brina’s corpse and Yolskja herself, and then he too collapsed, staining the ground scarlet. She lowered her blade, a slow smile spreading across her mouth, and set their bodies afloat in the river after stripping Horik of his clumsy armour and taking their gold and valuables. “That’s one less problem for the Dark Brotherhood.”


	21. Twenty-One

“**What...is life’s greatest illusion…?**” The Door spoke in the same rasping voice as the one in Falkreath. Its skeletal mouth was unmoving, but the question as clear as the now-blue skies.

“Silence, my Brother.”

“**You...are not worthy…**”

“Bitch!” Yolskja kicked the Door. “I’m a Dark Brotherhood member! What more do you want from me?”

It said nothing, and just stared at her with those empty ebony eyes. What cruel happenstance, for her to find a new home, and be so close to safety, and yet unable to truly access it. She rested her dripping palm against the red handprint in the centre of the Door’s skull engraving, and groaned. No other members existed out in The Pale. There was nobody that knew the code. 

She had cleaned up her mess except for the blood on her upper body. The crimson snow, the footprints, gone. By all accounts, nothing had happened in the strange little enclave. When it was noticed that Brina and Horik were missing, the finger of suspicion would point to Skald. She had done her job. And yet...she felt so unsatisfied.

She crouched down, dipped her hand into the cold ocean and watched as the ruby trails ribboned through the water and then dissipated into the wide open surf. “What rotten luck.”

The icy waves bit deeply as she finally washed all the blood from her chest, face and arms, and she almost thought she saw her fingertips turning a bit purple. She sat there, at the edge of the Sea of Ghosts, as the sun warmed her, and then she stood again, turning her face towards the south, and sighed. The information she had gathered wouldn’t satiate Arnbjorn, and worse, it wouldn’t satiate Hekatah. Her fingers played at her pink lips, which no longer bore the purple stain left by the Dunmer woman’s kiss days prior. She played her life fast and loose, with no intentions of settling down, but Hekatah was one of her favourite flings, and the pain of the disastrous raid was made worse knowing how much Hekatah suffered from it. 

Still, standing at the coastline wouldn’t get their answers faster. It was time to go back to Morthal. So she left for the swampy Hold, sweeping her tracks as she walked, until the snow gave way to frost-tipped grass that was stiff and sharp like shards of glass, and the cliffs became tall white-capped pine trees. Few people populated this part of Skyrim, but she made sure to take the most roundabout way, and while that added time to the trip, she made it to Hjaalmarch without coming across a single soul, save for bandits that did not live to tell of their encounter with the Dragonborn. 

The small marshy town of Morthal was as quiet as ever, the air of tension that was ever-present hovering over its thatched buildings like a malevolent god. Clouds covered the sky, and the stream running through the mill was as grey as the heavens it reflected. 

Almost nobody acknowledged her as she strode down the beaten rock pathway. She supposed they had grown used to her presence by now. Only Falion, standing by the bayou with his hands in his sleeves, even looked at her. 

Krogan’s house was at the very edge of the village, a fair ways away from the rest of the residences. Arnbjorn was sprawled on the porch steps, long hair pulled back, barefoot as always, whittling something. Idgrod was in the garden, with Joric this time, harvesting herbs for her medicine and cooking. Krogan leaned against the side of the house, watching his girlfriend. To outsiders, it must’ve looked like the perfect family.

When she came a bit closer, Arnbjorn’s ears twitched, and he looked up from his project. “You’re back. So? I was right, wasn’t I? Waste of time.”

“Not quite. Where’s Hekatah? She needs to go see her father soon.”

“She’s inside.” Arnbjorn flipped his switchblade shut. “Krogan. Get over here.”

“Yeah, I heard her. Idgrod, we’re gonna go handle our shit.” He righted himself, ruffled Joric’s hair, and made for the door. “See you in a bit, kid.”

Arnbjorn and Krogan vanished into the cottage, and Yolskja waved at the Ravencrones before following.

Hekatah sat in the parlor across the room from the dining space, reading, wearing a soft linen nightgown instead of the robes and dresses she had been borrowing from Idgrod, and clearly having neglected to brush her wild mane despite it being nearly noon. Babette had her back to the door, warming her little body at the firepit, which was emanating an enticing smell of some kind of stew brewing. Yolskja almost didn’t want to interrupt them, but they had heard the entrances. Hekatah carefully placed a silk bookmark on her page and closed the cover, and Babette stood up with a small grunt. 

“So,” said the vampire. “What did you find out?”

Arnbjorn set down his work, a surprisingly well-done carving of a wolf, and took his place where Babette had been sitting as Hekatah sat down at the table. “Said Hekatah’s father wants to see her or somethin’. I assume she meant the Mara priest, not the shitty one.”

The elf’s expression twisted into one of shame. “I haven’t told him where I am...I really should go see him...did you visit, Yols? How is he?”

“I didn’t see him. The targets said he’s worried sick about you.”

“Oh, by the Three, I bet he is...gods, I’ve completely neglected to pay attention to him…” She hid her face in her hands. “I’m a terrible daughter!”

“Hey, wait, it’s not like that…” Yolskja added quickly. “You just...should go see him soon. Hey, it’s okay. We’re gonna have to figure out the password, but there’s a Sanctuary in Dawnstar. It’s far enough from the actual settlement people won’t see us going in and out, but you’ll be able to go see your dad more often, if we can just figure out how to get in.”

Arnbjorn’s head shot up, and he almost fell into the fire. “There’s a fucking _what?!_”

“By Sithis, I forgot about that!” Babette exclaimed. “There’s a Sanctuary in Dawnstar. It’s the only other one in Skyrim, but it hasn’t been used in over a hundred years. Nobody alive knows the password.”

“How the hell did you forget about an _entire Sanctuary?!_” demanded Krogan.

Babette folded her arms. “Half of us are dead, Krogan. Things like that are less important in the face of fifty percent of my Family being murdered.”

Arnbjorn shrugged, having recovered quickly from his initial shock. “Well, either way, it doesn’t matter. That Sanctuary’s not gonna work out. Not if nobody knows the password.”

“What about the targets? That’s what you went there for,” Hekatah lifted her head. 

“Both dead. That’s what they were paid for. Commander Maro suspected the existence of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, but he couldn’t find it. They were being paid to hunt it down. It took them months to find it, but I sweet-talked them into showing me where it is, and then killed them. Them, Maro, and now us are the only people aware of it.”

Arnbjorn snorted. “Told you they had nothing.”

“They didn’t have _nothing!_” Yolskja protested. “The existence of the Dawnstar Sanctuary is important! There might be something in the Falkreath one that has information about it.”

“Bullshit,” Arnbjorn shot back. “I would know if we had information on the Dawnstar Sanctuary in Falkreath. My wife was the _leader_. And we _lived there._”

He sat silently for a moment, before continuing. “So now what?”

“I...really need to go to Dawnstar…” said Hekatah. “Me poor father must be out of his mind.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, and then closed it again. “Alright. That’s fine. Go see him. I’ll go take care of my target then, too, while you’re gone. That way we still get work done.”

Babette gave a little “hmm” of agreement before walking back over to the pit, rolling up her sleeves, and very carefully, as to not set her flammable body alight, pulled the pot of stew from above the coals.

“I could’ve done that, you know,” Hekatah looked over her shoulder. “Dunmer are immune to flames.”

“The nightgown you’re wearing isn’t,” Babette set the steaming meal on a cloth in the centre of the table. “I knew you’d forget you’re borrowing a Nord’s clothes and cause a fire. You’re not in Morrowind, dear.”

The Dark Elf’s pewter cheeks turned ever so slightly redder, and she smiled. “You know me too well, huh?”

Babette returned the grin with a small peek of her fangs and removed the lid. “Here. I used the last of the boar meat Krogan got for us and made some stew. It won’t do me any good, but I do love cooking so very much, and it finished right on time for Yolskja too. It’s fresh, so you three who have been spending time outside should eat well while it’s warm.”

Krogan wasted no time in scooping himself a heaping portion, while Arnbjorn and Yolskja were a bit less enthusiastic, being used to cold. “This is the one thing I hate most about Skyrim. It’s so bloody freezing. I don’t get it. Morrowind is even further north, but Solstheim’s coastline wasn’t turning my veins into ice!”

“It’s the volcano,” said Hekatah, helping herself to a small serving. “Morrowind is a place of heat and lava. So it’s warmer.”

“I don’t know if that’s right.” Krogan frowned. “But I guess it’s as good an explanation as any.”

“So all your stuff in Morrowind is fireproof then?” Yolskja asked. “That’s crazy.”

Hekatah blinked. “Yeah? I mean- it’s no different than how you Nords make your houses withstand snow, or your clothes not shrink in the cold. You adapt to what your country is like. It’s just weirder for you because you’re humans, and fire is naturally dangerous to you. If you’d been born a Dunmer, it wouldn’t even cross your mind. We’re born with the ability to cloak ourselves in flames. It would be unthinkable to not make everything inflammable.”

The redhead nodded. “I guess that’s true…anyway, Arnbjorn, what’s your game plan for Solitude? That’s a pretty high-profile target you’re looking at.”

“Bah. It’s been years since anyone saw me and lived to tell the tale. I have the luxury of being a new face to most people, since...all that happened when I was a teenager. And besides, I have this too.” He gestured at his facial hair and scars. “I doubt even my own…family would recognize me now. I’ll bust in sometime late, scare him into talking, and eat him. Nothin’ of it. He’s not even the spy, that’s damn sure. Just a nice exercise for the beast inside.”

“When’re you gonna leave?” Hekatah leaned back in her chair. “I’ll probably pack up tonight and leave around nine in the morning...when it’s not so cold…”

“Dawn,” said Arnbjorn simply. “I’ll try not to wake you or Yolskja. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t take too long in Dawnstar.”

“I won’t. I never do…” Another shadow of self-loathing passed across her features. “Sometimes I just want to tell him everything...but he’d never look at me the same way again…me mother already wants me dead...Father is too weak to argue...I can’t get ditched by Dad too.”

“Keeping up that double life must be exhausting for both you and Yolskja,” Babette mused. “Poor dears…”

“Does he know you have that...Blade?” Krogan had already finished his entire plate. “The long black one.”

“Yeah, he knows about the Ebony Blade. Not that he knows I’ve...used it for its intended purposes, but I think it unsettles him a bit. It’s...it's been a long time since we travelled together, anyway. I haven’t really done anything but visit since...since Astrid recruited me.”

“And Azura’s Star?”

“Well, I’m a mage. Me soul-trapping stuff isn’t unusual. He uses enchantments too...and I mean, he was with me when I got that one.” Her fingers drummed on the table. “It only stores white souls. So it's not trapping anything like a person. I have to get those from Falion. Not...that Dad knows about that...”

She shook her head. “He’s been so much better to me than me real folks were, but I don’t like talking about our differences. It’s easier to just pretend that I’m no more than a wandering mage that neglects her job when it comes to him…”

“Uh…” Krogan looked at a loss for words. “I better get back to helping Idgrod in the garden. You and Arnbjorn should go ahead and get ready for your trips. Thanks for the lunch, Babette.”

“Of course, Brother. Have fun gardening!” Babette turned back to Hekatah. “Now, you’re going to need some warmer clothes...what you wore to Windhelm didn’t cut it, and the Pale is just as frigid.”

“Yeah, I realized that on me way...all me good robes are back in Falkreath still...what remains of it...or in the College. Nords don’t get cold as easily, so what I’ve been borrowing isn’t thick enough to keep me warm further north.”

“Hm...well, you and Yolskja haven’t been home at the same time much, but now that you are, I bet she can help me make you some clothes...Arnbjorn, can you step out for a bit? Come here, Yolskja, let’s work this out…”


	22. Twenty-Two

“Helpin’ out in the garden, huh?” 

Krogan looked around the corner of the house to see Arnbjorn, stooped over, approaching him with a tired smirk. 

“If leanin’ against a wall was help, Astrid wouldn’t have had to nag Festus about helping tidy up so much,” the werewolf continued.

“Oh, fuck off,” Krogan growled. “I like Hekatah, but I’m not a therapist. I don’t want to deal with her messed up family.”

Arnbjorn’s smirk widened, and he sat cross-legged next to the Orc, before suddenly sobering. “So.”

“What?”

“You’ve bugged me a ton about how I’ve been doin’ after...all this. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t you care? About our Family? You asked me if I had wept. Have you?”

Krogan tilted his head back. “I didn’t like most of them. Astrid I respected. The rest...it’s fine that Yolskja and Babette made it. Spikes...that bastard...I wish he’d gotten what Veezara did. But for me...I’m just glad I have you and Hekatah, really. That’s all I could have asked for...I’ve got my Idgrod here, and I have you, and my Sister. And that’s really all I need.”

“You’re not mourning? At all?” 

“Nah...I mean, Astrid...you did good with her, she had a good mind for business, keeping this shitty little cult alive. So I guess it sucks that she’s gone...and I mean, I don’t like seein’ you two hurtin’ for her. But I guess the rest were just coworkers I knew. So it’s weird that they’re dead, but I can’t say I’m sad,” Krogan examined Arnbjorn, whose mouth was a thin line, and added quickly, “But I think it’s better that way.”

A snort. “And why’s that?”

“You and Hekatah need a rock. Yolskja and Babette aren’t over the others, and they’re also torn up about the stupid croc. So having me around is good, because I’m not compromised emotionally.”

“I guess…” Arnbjorn examined his claws. “Why us, specifically?”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember when you joined. You hated everyone. What makes me and Hekatah so special? That out of everyone, it’s just us you care about?”

“Well,” said Krogan thoughtfully. “You and I, we’re the same kind of dumbass jerk. We like killin’ things. We love our women. We don’t worry too much about thinkin’ or plannin’. I can respect that. And Hekatah...I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something connecting us. Not in- not in a romantic way, but like we’re supposed to stick with each other. Like she really is my sister, not just a Dark Sister. Plus, she kind of looks like a doll that came to life to kill people, and I like those stories.”

Arnbjorn snorted again, this time with some amusement. “Nobody can say you don’t have reasons for what you do, I guess.”

“Hm.” Krogan’s eyes wandered across the edge of Morthal, on his girlfriend’s brother, who had long since abandoned the garden, and now played tag with Falion’s child under the Redguard’s watchful eye. Idgrod picked up her baskets of harvest, wordlessly kissed Krogan on the cheek, and left for the local shop, as she did most days at around this time. 

A courier made his way down the dirt path, past the house, before looping back around and apparently talking to Falion. While Krogan thought nothing of it, Arnbjorn’s posture straightened, and it occurred to the Orc that the Nord did in fact have supernaturally strong hearing. 

“Be right back,” he grunted before standing and approaching the courier. Krogan couldn’t hear what they said, but a moment later, Arnbjorn returned with an envelope. “Courier’s lookin’ for Hekatah. Apparently there’s news from the College.”

“You just took her letter?”

“I’m not gonna read it, but the courier can’t go barging into the house, Yolskja and Babette are trying to make clothes for her.”

“How did he even know…?”

“Apparently the girl runnin’ the College right now is friends with Falion, and directed the courier to him since Hekatah hangs out around here a lot. I dunno.” Arnbjorn sat back down. “Anyway, when are you going to Markarth?”

“Probably around when you get back from Solitude…” Krogan sighed deeply. “I hate to say this, but I really think it’s probably Hekatah’s College employee. None of the others make sense to me. But I don’t mind goin’...I can get behind some of what’s going on in the Reach...I mean, I was with the King in Rags when we all busted out of there...not that anyone really noticed me in the middle of all those Forsworn.”

A low snarl rumbled in Arnbjorn’s throat. “You forget what our goal is…”

“I don’t. I think it’s good to focus on other things some, too. You’ll burn out if you just keep gunning for revenge.”

Arnbjorn leaned his head against the cottage. “I guess…what if it’s not any of them?”

“Huh?”

“What if Babette grabbed the wrong stuff? What if she’s right, and the spy isn’t anyone on the list, and we can’t find them and we end up back at square one?”

“Then we go back to the Outpost and start over.”

“What if the stupid wizard lied to us?”

“What’s gotten into you? He’s not dumb enough or crazy enough to try that. Hekatah’d just march right back up to him and call that ghost again, or send for her grandfather. The name’s somewhere in Dragon Bridge, even on the off chance that we have the wrong list. It’s fine.”

“I guess...”

Clouds passed over the sun briefly, casting softly shaped shadows over the browning grass and golden algae surrounding Morthal. The air cooled for just a moment, but as much as he had complained, Krogan was all but used to the chill in the swamp. He had nothing more to say, and neither did Arnbjorn. For now, their violence was stored away, soothed by the passing of the silver skies and slow setting of the lukewarm star. Mid-afternoon crawled in and seemed to lay still like a hibernating snake, and amongst the silence, the front door opened, and light steps crunched across the cold-sharpened snow.

“What do you think?” Hekatah stretched out her arms, showing off a loose woolen gown with a dusty blue hue and a long lilac scarf. “Yolskja and Babette just finished.”

“That fast?” Krogan raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t making clothes from scratch take days…?”

“Not if you’re them, apparently.”

“Is it warm?”

She nodded happily. “It’s perfect.”

“Then it’s fine.”

“Oi. Hekatah. Letter for you,” Arnbjorn thrust the delivery at her. “Courier came by while you were working with the dress. It’s from the College.”

“Oh!” She took it, and immediately she seemed to become wrapped up in the message, forgetting there were others around. “Let’s see...oh, this looks like Akalera’s handwriting..._Esteemed Arch-Mage Hekatah- I do so hate to be a bother to you in the midst of your current activities, but I need to inform you of a change that has taken place in your absence. Poor Mistress Paloine’s husband has been killed by a vigilante group, apparently under the impression that the unfortunate man, gods rest his soul, was an abomination of sorts, and she has returned to Whiterun to mourn and be with their child. In your leave, and hers as well, Master Tolfdir and I have taken to maintaining the College. We have not made any other changes, and things are running smoothly, but our lack of communication with you has concerned us. I do not know what has kept you for so long, but I wish the best for you in your endeavors. Please take care, and give us notice of your health shortly. With much respect, Akalera Maryon. Post-script: I have heard of many upsetting events lately, and a rise in violence across the province as of recent, which has driven me from my small settlement in Falkreath. I am quite worried about you. Please stay safe, and keep your eyes open when you travel._ Oh, Paloine...that’s terrible...I hope she’s okay...I mean, she isn’t...but...”

“Companion.” Arnbjorn snapped. 

“Huh?” She peered over the top of the note at him, wide-eyed.

“She’s married to a Companion. That death sounds like the Silver Hand. They’re a group of bandits that hunt and torture anyone they suspect of being a werewolf. It’s been like this since I was a lad, and I’ve had my fair share of encounters with them since I became moon-born. I’m shocked one of the Companions would marry a College teacher, let alone one who was a High Elf.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t think I knew she was married…I suppose that must have happened when I was first settling in here...I knew about the kid, but he looks human, so I guessed he was adopted,” Hekatah frowned. “And to a Companion? I’ve never really interacted with them, but…”

“You shouldn’t. I’ve told you this. They’re wretched hypocrites. A Dark Elf mage like you wouldn’t last a moment. The fact that one of them even looked at an elf wizard in a positive light is the most surprising thing I’ve heard in a while.” Arnbjorn’s lip curled. “Your employee is an idiot. You can’t trust a Companion, or anyone who associates with them.”

Clearly the subject had struck a nerve with him. Hekatah folded the parchment slowly and slid it into a pocket on the side of her gown. “I’m…? Okay...if you say so...I mean, you don’t know that he was a Companion...she might just be in Whiterun. I’ve never met the guy…if Paloine liked him...poor woman...”

“Well, you won’t meet him now, since he’s dead. And the Silver Hand most heavily targets the Circle. I’m positive he was a Companion.” The words were spoken with electrified harshness. Arnbjorn had a bad past with the Companions, and had once, albeit entirely on accident, bruised Hekatah’s shoulders when she commented on a guard suggesting she join the Companions. 

He had grabbed her firmly, unaware of the strength of his grip, and refused to let go until she swore to him she would never. He had apologized when she showed him the marks, but was bizarrely evasive when it came to why he reacted in such a manner. The reason he gave was the same every time it had come up, that the Companions glorified Ysgramor, that they looked down on mer, that they hated magic, that it would be unsafe for Hekatah to join their ranks, and griped about their lack of honour, but none of his excuses seemed genuine. No other expression of a loathing for sorcery, nor the stories Yolskja and Hekatah had from the Gray Quarter incited such a rage in him, and for a man who was proudly expelled for his underhandedness, a complaint of honour was bizarre. 

But after two years, he had never expounded upon his actual issue, on what brought such a strong fury out when the Companions were mentioned, and Hekatah dropped the subject, looking instead at the horizon and rubbing her hands together to warm them. “Sun will set soon. You two have been out here a while. Come inside for a bit, and rest up. You have a hell of a walk tomorrow. Let’s relax a bit before you go to Solitude.”


	23. Twenty-Three

Dawn came much sooner than Arnbjorn would have liked it to. He had always been an early riser, and as time had passed since the raid, his nights had become less fitful, but that in no way eased his discomfort as the first beams of rosy light streamed through the curtains and the translucent wallscreens. The warm hue of the sun’s rays was deceitful. Slowly, Arnbjorn sat up, and shrugged off his covers, and the bitter cold of a Morthal morning nipped him.

He tried to get up delicately, and not wake whoever else was in the house. Across the room, Yolskja and Hekatah lay together, Yolskja on her back, Hekatah on her side, messy-haired and undisturbed, the Dunmer’s arm stretching across Yolskja’s ribs. Arnbjorn placed one foot on the icy wooden floor, and the planks creaked, and Hekatah shifted slightly, but immediately settled back in against the crook of her lover’s shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of her pale lips. 

A pang struck his chest. It was stupid, and never something he would say out loud, not again, but seeing them so content with each other brought back memories of lazy mornings with Astrid. They were lucky to still have that, and he felt like it was almost a moral responsibility to leave without rousing them. 

Despite his immense size, there was a subtlety to his movement when he wanted. He moved as silently as a wildcat, a nonissue for his comrades, as he prepared to leave in soundlessness without a trace of his exit, but as he reached for the door a tiny whisper shocked him.

“Hey. Pst. Arnbjorn.”

“Talos…!” he clapped his hand over his mouth and looked over his shoulder to make sure the women had not woken. “Babette…”

“Sorry!” the vampire girl was crouched in the corner, probably fully aware of what she had just done despite the apology, with two small vials in her tiny hands. “I wanted to give you these before you left. They’re invisibility potions, specially made.”

“Thanks?”

“You’ve been so strong in the midst of all this,” she went on with a hint of sadness. “You’ve always been good about taking care of your Family in your own way. But I want you to take care of yourself, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Get going now. Have some fun. And tell me all about it when you get back, alright?”

He shrugged and pocketed the gifts. “Yeah. I will. Uh...before I go…”

Babette cocked her head. 

“I haven’t really asked...about you, I mean. You’re...are you okay?”

“Oh, Arnbjorn,” she murmured. “That’s a level of conversation we don’t have time for right now.”

She inhaled and her whole body rose and fell with the breath. “I’ll be fine. I’m no worse off than any of the rest of us, I guess. Listen...just go take care of your mission, and worry about the rest as it comes.”

“Fine.” He straightened his spine and stepped out into the marshes, his axe on his back, wrapped in a fur cloak, and at his waist, hidden from the rest of the world, his wife’s Blade of Woe.

He didn’t know how to use it. He never had. He was not dexterous enough to wield a small knife. Astrid though, Astrid had used it like it was a part of her very own body, with the confidence and ease of a dancer. He didn’t remember when she had acquired the Blade, or how, for while he knew it was an ancient weapon bound to the Brotherhood, his mind so firmly connected it with her that it seemed impossible that anyone else could have owned it, ever.

And now it was in his hands, and he could not glorify it the way it should have been glorified, but he kept it because it was hers and in an unspoken way, it gave him authority over the rest, authority he neither wanted nor deserved, but took because it was _his_ wife who had died, _he_ who had been widowed, and really it was unfair to the others but he couldn’t give it up yet.

Babette was the most suited for leadership. She was ancient, three hundred, wise in the ways of both the old Tenets and the new, godless Brotherhood, and she had made her choice, one that the rest would follow, to give up on the alleged Night Mother, on the Keeper, on the Tenets and on Sithis, and while they still prayed and swore on the Dread Father, none truly worshipped him. 

Festus would have complained. He always complained. He wished for the Old Ways, for Sithis, for structure, but there had not been a Listener in decades, and Arnbjorn had never even laid eyes on the corpse that supposedly directed the Brotherhood. Life was simpler without it. Of course, life was simpler without a lot of things. Like laws, and empires, and the endless thoughts that pestered him.

Arnbjorn had left so soon because of these thoughts, the monologue running through his head that so rarely stopped these days, full of memories and aching and the confusion that came with feeling emotions he usually bottled away.

If Krogan was right, and the traitor, the spy, was the Altmer under Hekatah, who now, it seemed, resided in Jorrvaskr...

He did not want to confront the whirlwind of pain, anger, shame and grief that came with such a revelation, that came with being forced to choose between facing his past to avenge his wife or living on without doing either.

Morthal was a ways behind him now, smothered by fog and mist, a surprise waiting for the next poor bastard to stumble across it and its unholy inhabitants. The sun was harsher now, but the ocean carried a salty spray on its currents that swept over the landscape as the boggy Hjaalmarch gave way to the coastal Haafingar. 

He folded his arms across his chest. Solitude really wasn’t as far from Morthal as it had seemed...or perhaps he was simply used to journeys beginning from the heart of Falkreath. It was possible, too, that in his inhuman state, and lost in his ramblings, he had missed the passage of entire days. The soreness of his feet seemed to suggest it was the latter.

His shoulders were stiff. Chopping wood and hunting game simply didn’t carry the weight of taking a human life. It had been too long since he had murdered. Killing trolls and deer in the marsh wasn’t enough anymore. 

_Arnbjorn. Never lose._

He never did. He was more than mortal, more than man, and what those around him saw was only the beginning. Hulking, brutish, yes, but he was cunning, a whole pack of wild dogs in Nord form, prepared for the endless hunt. So he restrained his urges further, nodded politely to passerby as he walked, and planned, planned what he would do and how he would escape. 

Midnight, when the town settled down, when the moons were at their peaks and Hircine’s gift was its strongest. He would never be found, his true face never seen, never identified, only the swift and brutal form of a great and silver werewolf that struck fear into the hearts of all but those he loved. His wife’s chosen and his wife’s chosen alone would be spared his wrath. Anyone, everyone else who stood in his way was as good as dead. 

The iconic Dragon Bridge rose its great head in the distance, and his hair stood on end, prickling with static fury, and again the beast howled for blood. But he couldn’t...not yet. Oh, the time would come, and he would have the Penitus Oculatus on their knees...but not yet, not as his muscles trembled and his heart raced, not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet.

He would not pass directly through. To do so would be foolish. He would leave a trail of carnage, likely killing the innkeeper that still needed to be dealt with. The route he would take instead was longer, but safer...for him, and for their plans.

Their plans...what would come next? Once Astrid was avenged, and their security ensured…

Arnbjorn hated to admit it, hated to think that Astrid, perhaps, was not all that held the Brotherhood together, but with Nazir dead, with their primary informant on contracts gone...if Nazir had lived, there would have been some semblance, at least, of a future, and while they did have the targets he had known of, Arnbjorn was certain that there were other leads the Redguard had not managed to track down before his untimely murder.

Was there a future at all for him? For Babette? Krogan...he could stay in Morthal forever, living luxuriously as the Jarl’s son-in-law, and later, as the Jarl’s husband. Hekatah had so much at her fingertips...he didn’t understand Dark Elves, but she surely had some sort of noble status in Morrowind, and even if that wasn’t true she could always return to her position as Arch-Mage. And Yolskja, pretty girl that she was, Dragonborn, she truly could go anywhere and do anything. 

Even Spikes, that wretched lizard, that traitorous slimy reptile, even he was somewhere, amongst the Thieves Guild, or with those vampires, and yet Arnbjorn, disowned, disgraced, had no fallback, no family.

He would still have Babette, he supposed. Another monster, confined to the wilderness by the nature of her being, but her kin were long dead, freeing her to return to society if she should ever seek a cure, and his were not, and while he could easily turn back to just living on the run, a bandit with no purpose except to kill and eat, the circumstances had forced him to admit to himself that as much as he loved Astrid and as much as she would always be his priority, he had loved the rest too, and being alone just didn’t have the same appeal that it had when he first went rogue. 

_Worry about the rest as it comes._ That was what Babette had told him. Perhaps she had known that when he left he would find himself wondering these things. 

Things would work themselves out. They had to.


	24. Twenty-Four

“Dad.” The words echoed throughout Nightcaller Temple. “Erandur. It’s...I’m home...”

The priest sitting with his back to the entrance turned. “Mara be praised!”

She dropped her gaze to the floor, as if suddenly fascinated by her boots, so that she didn’t see his expression as he stood up and swept over to her, and so that he didn’t see her shame. She had left him alone, in this cold tower, wondering about her...

“Hekatah!” He was not very tall for one of their kind, stunted by his unspeakable past, but when he pulled her close she felt like his robes enveloped her entirely. “I’ve been so worried. Your letter…bandits are the worst lot. They know nothing of pity or mercy. I’m glad you made it out alive.”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she mumbled, slowly returning his embrace. “I’m okay…it’s thanks to you...I was able to heal meself some...with what you taught me...so when me brother found me I was still breathing...”

“Don’t apologize, my daughter. It’s enough that you’re safe.” He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, and she finally raised her head. “You needn’t look so down on yourself. It’s alright. You’re alive, and that’s all I needed to know. And I’m happy that what I was able to show you was helpful.” 

“Gods…” She threw her arms around him again, tightly, and he grunted in mild surprise. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize...how worried you must’ve been...how worried everyone must’ve been…all the things that have happened since I was hurt…horrible things...and nobody heard a thing from me at all!”

“Skyrim has always been a dangerous place. What happened after you were injured was upsetting, but it’s not your fault you weren’t able to keep up with everyone.”

“You were here all by yourself, though, weren’t you? That’s awful.”

He gently pried her off of him. “I do alright. I’m a priest. And I spent most of my childhood alone. So solitude isn’t unwelcoming. I made some tea while I was reading. Come sit and have some, and let’s talk.”

“Yeah…but you’re safe too, right? Nords...they don’t like us…”

“The people of Dawnstar are kind to me,” he said as he guided her over to the corner of the former church that he had reserved for himself. “They’ve helped me repair Nightcaller Temple somewhat, so it’s liveable. I don’t mind the meager existence. It keeps my mind focused on things that matter.”

“I guess.”

“Sometimes, I miss travelling with you. But I understand that things have changed since the Arch-Mage died. I wish you hadn’t had that thrust on you so young…” Erandur handed her a cup of steaming warm tea. “You and that poor Altmer, the girl who can’t speak...it’s awful that you had to deal with such a large threat like the Thalmor when you should have just been students.”

Hekatah accepted the drink and remained in silence for a moment. What Erandur referenced had only happened two years prior, but it felt like so much longer...it seemed silly, perhaps overdramatic even to say, but the girl Hekatah had been when Erandur discovered her lost in the Pale was not the same woman who sat with him now. All hope of returning to Morrowind had been dashed when she devoted herself to Astrid, and with that hope, the innocence she had tried to maintain vanished too. 

She had come to Skyrim when she was twenty-three, in hopes of finding a safe passage to upper mainland Morrowind that wouldn’t force her through Black Marsh. Her intention had not been go home to her parents, but rather, she had desired to seek out her grandfather again, grow under him, and become a powerful mage-lord like the Nerevarine she had stories of, the Nerevarine who would, eventually, awaken as her very own ancestor guardian. 

But her fate was different. The childhood admiration she had for the House her strong-minded mother resented was nothing more than a fantasy. Skyrim was at war, and that war had shaped her destiny. She lost what little gold she had from her years in Cyrodiil when she was wounded in the crossfire of the Stormcloak’s conflict with the Empire, and it wasn’t long before, ill, confused, and hungry, she found herself in the care of the old monk whose company she now shared, and who was her companion until an unexpected tragedy pushed her into the mourning period that let Astrid catch her. 

“How has your sleep been?” Erandur asked, and she snapped out of her forlorn reminiscing. “Helping me destroy the Skull all that time ago angered Vaermina, I’m sure.”

“You always ask. Every time I visit.” She wasn’t upset, but rather amused. “It’s sweet. Your wards do fine. I- I slept better when we travelled together, of course. I mean...I have...uneasy dreams, but usually I wake rested.”

“That’s good. Is there anything troubling you?”

She hesitated. There was a moment, just a moment, where she wanted to tell him everything, the whole truth, about who she was and why she was that person, and about the endless pain she felt, and about her fears for the future and her disgust with her love, and the real reason she had stayed in Skyrim all this time, and the way her choices followed her like bloodhounds, but she couldn’t, she never could, because she had already lost her mother’s love and father’s loyalty and she had already lost her Family and she couldn’t bear to be cast aside again, and so she forced a smile and shook her head and he didn’t believe her but she insisted. And so they remained in their web of lies, a holy man and his unholy daughter blanketed by a chill in the air that the hottest tea couldn’t thaw.


	25. Twenty-Five

Captain Aldis woke to a great weight on his chest. At first, he thought it was psychosomatic, a symptom of the stress he felt from the war at hand and the deaths of the Penitus Oculatus’ best men. And then he realized, as his vision adjusted, that the weight had a form, and claws, and was digging into him. 

It pressed down harder, squeezing the air from his lungs, and he opened his mouth to cry out, but the being looming over him flashed sharp fangs and clamped a- was it a hand or a paw? over his lips. Whatever the monster was, it was huge, and he could barely make out the silhouette against the little starlight coming in through his window. It was animalistic, ungodly, and suddenly, Captain Aldis had a great deal of respect for the Vigil of Stendarr, for surely this was of the Daedra or witchcraft...surely this was no organic being...

“Don’t say a word to the guards. Don’t even try to call for help,” it said, and it had the deep voice of a man, but the shape he saw was far from human, mer or even beastfolk. “Answer me, and you may yet live.”

Aldis’ very bones felt cold, as if he was dying and rotting from the inside out. All he could see of the creature was a pair of cunning steel gray eyes, and a wide, wide canine grin. “Wh…”

His arm flailed weakly at the side of his bed, reaching for his sword, but his fingers were numb and his body was weak, and his palm was damp with and slipped right off the metal hilt, for what he faced was more than a mere soldier, more than a simple rebel, and it struck a supernatural fear of the utmost kind into his heart. Ulfric’s militia he could handle. Bandits he could handle. Even the rare vampire he could manage. But this...this thing, it was beyond his comprehension, beyond his skillset, and he knew in his rapidly beating heart that he was not going to survive.

“Your dealings with the Penitus Oculatus...what were they?”

What? The Oculatus...his business with them...what did it want with that? What could it need that information for? It was not mortal, it was not man, what need did it have for his governmental affairs?

He tried to say something, anything, but what came out was a strangled sigh. The creature’s grip moved from his chest to his neck, and he felt fur. Could it be? 

“You will speak to me.” It leaned in, and the clouds outside parted, and Aldis finally saw his tormentor in fullness. A werewolf, massive, bigger than he had ever pictured, hunched over so its wide head did not touch the ceiling, with shaggy silver fur, scars across its face and body, and a keen, sadistic intelligence in its ferocious face that made its brutish build so much more harrowing. “I will have my answers.”

Gods save him...one of Hircine’s wretched inventions, a nightmare beyond anything the natural order could produce, with the wit of a man, but the strength of a giant, and the bloodlust of a frenzied slaughterfish feeding party. There was no humanity in that frigid fire stare, no love or pity or mercy in that grand wolf smile, nor grace in those long claws. No reason, no bargaining, no trick or trade that could be dealt to simple mortals could be applied here. 

“I said _speak!_” it snarled, and its breath was hot on his face. 

Aldis’ jaw moved with no sound. His mind raced, and his heart sped ahead. 

“I have suffered,” the fiend continued. “And you will help me avenge my pain. Your dealings with the Oculatus. The thousand Septims paid. What was it for?”

“H...housing…” Aldis finally wheezed. No! What was he doing!? 

The pressure on his throat eased. “More.”

The words tumbled out, tripping over each other. “Oculatus...housing...soldiers...in Solitude...paid for resources…”

“You were paid for Penitus Oculatus Agents to use Solitude guard barracks and resources?”

Aldis nodded. His skin was slick with glacial sweat, soaking into his sheets and bones, sliding down his sword, which he still couldn’t get a firm grasp on, and which still, surely, wasn’t enough to kill his assailant. 

“And the raid on the Dark Brotherhood?”

Gods! Gods! So they had lived after all! They had lived! And they wanted vengeance! Oh, gods, oh gods, oh gods, they were so much worse than anyone could have prepared for! The hopelessness washed over him, worming through his flesh and digging into his marrow, and he could not stop himself from giving the demon its answers.

“I...had nothing...to do with it...I swear…”

“Nothing at all?”

He shook his head violently. He could no longer move. Paralysis had claimed his every muscle at the worst time, and he almost felt like he might faint with fear, or even die on the spot.

The devil examined him, saying nothing, doing nothing, and then, satisfied, released its captive and began to turn away, but even before Aldis could comprehend what was happening, it whipped back around, its maw gaping and deadly, and its teeth sank into his jugular, spraying them both with wet, red warm blood and his scream didn’t even reach the world before it gurgled to a bubbling halt. Claws tore open his abdomen, and with the kind of self-distancing that came from witnessing your own demise, Aldis watched his organs tumble out, and his vision began to fade, and finally his life left him, with his last moments spent hearing the crunch of his bones as the monster began to devour him.

That was one perk of being a werewolf. Meals and contracts were one and the same. There was almost nothing left of Aldis when Arnbjorn was done, nothing but the blood that had seeped into the floor and sheets, and scraps of clothing. 

In the morning, when Aldis failed to show for the eight AM training, the guards would find his bed, crusted over with browning crimson, and his sword abandoned, but no evidence, no corpse, and no murderer. The Imperial was dead, food for the wild dog, and the dog himself escaped out the window the same way he came in and vanished into the pine forests of Haafingar. 

“Not much of a fight,” Arnbjorn growled to himself as he became man again, alone in the wilderness with the taste of death on his tongue. “But...it was nice. Wouldn’t have been worth getting into it for real, I suppose…”

Dawn would approach soon, but not too soon, for there still remained several hours left in the most vicious of Hircine’s nights, and he would take those hours as his own. He wandered through the woods till he reached a secluded mountaintop overlooking the naval Hold, and he sat there, one palm on the hilt of the Blade of Woe, watching the two moons. Not another soul was around, and the forest was still and silent. His heartbeat slowed, coming down from the rush of his crime, and he inhaled deeply. There was a sense of alien serenity in the soundless, spiritless backwoods, like time was unmoving, or even flowing backwards to when he was young and just beginning to date his future wife. He’d brought her out somewhere near, early on in their relationship, and the twilight hours were so very similar now to how they had been then...in a way, he almost believed that Astrid was beside him again with her arm looped around his, and for just a few hours, for the first time in months, he felt strangely at peace.


	26. Twenty-Six

“It’s snowing,” Babette stood on her toes and stared out the window. “I wonder if it’s snowing where Arnbjorn and Hekatah are. I do love snow. It’s a shame we didn’t get to enjoy it much back home. Falkreath tends to be a bit warmer…”

Yolskja stoked the firepit. “Maybe if we can figure out how to get into the Dawnstar Sanctuary…”

“We’ll have to have it fixed,” Babette fell back on her soles and hefted herself into a chair much too large for her little body. “Nobody’s used it in a hundred years. It’s probably falling apart.”

“Fixed? By whom?”

The vampire’s brow furrowed. “Well...the Thieves Guild. Astrid was friends with Delvin Mallory, and he had some connections to people that could help with things like this. But…”

“Krogan and Arnbjorn fucked it up,” Yolskja finished. 

“Not just them. Even before she joined us, Hekatah...well, she’s punched some of their members a few times...and then she turned on Spikes when he was infected.” 

Yolskja bit her lip. “I mean...we don’t know where Spikes went...the Guild might not have found out about his fight with Krogan and Arnbjorn…”

“But they definitely know about Hekatah’s hatred for them, at the very least.” Babette looked at the floor, almost despondently. “Things would be so much easier if we had Astrid still…she could get the repairs secured in no time...”

“I miss them. Everyone.”

“I do too, dear…but we’ll pull through. We always have. I was alive when the Dark Brotherhood last faced destruction, and we survived.”

“But we’ve been on our last leg for centuries...at least back then there were Skyrim Sanctuaries…now it’s just us, and no Sanctuary!”

“It’ll be okay.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself just as much as Yolskja. “It’ll...be okay…”

Yolskja sighed and stood to watch the snow fall. “I guess we shouldn’t dwell on it…”

“No, we shouldn’t. Do you know where Krogan is?”

“Probably with Idgrod somewhere. I’m gonna clean this place up a bit. Arnbjorn never makes his bed, and it’s probably time we washed the sheets.”

“He’s always been like that. Bit of a messy man, especially for someone so particular about hygiene.” Babette smiled wistfully. “Gabriella teased Astrid about it all the time...although Festus was worse about not cleaning up after himself.”

“At least Veezara kept things neat,” Yolskja sighed again, stripping the beds down and placing the uncovered pillows back atop the naked mattresses. “It’s cold out, but as long as I bring everything back inside before it starts freezing over...the river shouldn’t be so cold that the sheets freeze in the water, right?”

“Probably not. I haven’t checked, though. I try not to go outside during the day. I think my appearance might bring questions to poor Idgrod’s door.”

Yolskja carefully folded the covers into a more manageable pile and picked them up. “I’ll be back soon. Can you put something over the fireplace, like a rack or something, so I can dry these when I’m done?”

“Sure.”

The Nord stepped out, and found herself hit with air so cold it took her breath away. Dainty white flakes danced across the terrain, sometimes blustered about with gusts of powerful, frigid wind. Down the road, she saw Idgrod the Younger playing in the snow with her little brother in front of Highmoon Hall, watched closely by a seemingly disinterested Krogan. 

Her knees were dampened by the soft powder as she knelt by the slushy water, and her fingertips rapidly turned pink when she began washing. Her kind were resistant to frostbite, but still, even as quickly as she worked, she found her hands bruised when she was done.

“Shouldn’t have done this…but it was time…” She grunted as she stood back up. The sheets on the bank had already stiffened with a wintery chill and even on the short walk back, the pillow cases glazed over. Fortunately, Babette had set up the drying rack like she promised, and the heat from the flames soon softened the frozen layers. Yolskja held her palms over the hot coals, watching water evaporate off the linens as the ice melted and became gaseous, and waiting for her fingers to become a normal shade again.

“Oh...it was colder than I thought…” Babette mumbled sheepishly when she saw Yolskja’s hands. “Maybe I should’ve done it after dark…”

“It’s fine,” Yolskja insisted. “Hopefully they’ll dry before Arnbjorn or Hekatah come home.”

“Did Hekatah say how long she planned to spend in Dawnstar?”

Yolskja shook her head. “Only that she never stays very long. She’ll come home when she’s ready. I did see Krogan. He’s with Idgrod and her brother.”

“Oh, that’s sweet! He does like children...probably isn’t very good with them, though…”

“He can be gentle...he’s just too much of an asshole to show it.” Yolskja sounded annoyed. “He thinks acting tough will save his ass.”

“He probably feels pent up,” Babette commented. “He’s not been on a contract in a while, especially not since we were displaced…”

“Well, the sooner Arnbjorn comes back, the sooner he can get going to Markarth...and maybe I’ll go ahead and make my run to Dragon Bridge while we’re at it…Hekatah will probably want to go ahead and make her way to Falkreath too and take care of that. And then...”

“So you think it’s Paloine.” 

“We all know it is. She’s the only one with no other connection to the Oculatus. But poor Hekatah...she doesn’t want to believe that her friend killed Astrid...she’ll be devastated.”

“It may be best if we send someone other than her or Arnbjorn to handle Paloine if that’s the case. I fear they may do something stupid…”

Yolskja bit her lower lip. “I don’t think they’ll let us. They’re so bullheaded. He’ll want to go for sure...and I don’t think we can stop Hekatah from tagging along…”

“Maybe it won’t get to that point. Maybe it’ll turn out the spy was someone else. I still think that innkeeper is a good candidate.”

Yolskja shrugged, and after a few moments of contemplation between the two, the door opened. 

“Guess who wasn’t the spy?” Arnbjorn’s greeting was harsh. “And guess who got a good meal?”

“Aldis, and you.” Yolskja answered without turning around.

“Got it in one. Krogan’s up next, right? Someone oughta go find the bastard.”

“He’s with his girlfriend right now.”

“And? We have a traitor to find.”

“He’ll probably leave tomorrow. Relax.”

“Hmph.” Arnbjorn slumped into a nearby chair, and a sudden weariness crept into his voice. “I assume the little Elf is still gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmkay. Before she goes to Falkreath, there’s somethin’ I need to tell her. Anyway, how were things here?”

“We’re fine,” Babette assured him. “I mean, we’re all still handling...everything. And I think we’re all getting bored. But nothing happened.”

“Alright…you washed the sheets, Yolskja?”

“No, I just thought I’d hang them over the fire for a bit. Yeah, I washed them. I’ll make the beds in a bit, once they’re done drying.”

He didn’t respond. Yolskja assumed he was tired. When she looked over her shoulder after several minutes of silence, his chin had fallen to his chest, and he was asleep.

Babette and Yolskja made no noise as to let him rest, carrying on with their activities as quietly as they could until they went to bed. Krogan, of course, had no such tact. In his defense, he didn’t know Arnbjorn had returned, but when he entered the house with heavy footsteps, the Nord raised his head and snarled sleepily.

“Oh shit, Arnbjorn.” He said the name like Arnbjorn was some kind of animal he had stumbled across in the woods. “Didn’t know you were back.”

“Wha’time is it?”

“Probably around ten. Yolskja and Babette are both in bed, it looks like. I’m heading back to Highmoon in a few minutes but I wanted to check in and see if we’d heard from you or Hekatah. Guess that answers that…”

Arnbjorn dragged the back of his wrist across his eyes. “Yeah…”

“I don’t see Hekatah though…”

“Nah...she’s not back yet…”

“Hm. Well, I’ll go to Markarth tomorrow, I guess. You should go sleep in an actual bed. Sleeping upright like that is bad for your spine. See ya after I’m done ruining the Reach again.”

The Orc left, closing the door behind him more delicately than he had opened it. Arnbjorn stood up with a grunt and flopped facedown onto his clean drapes, and drifted off almost instantly into a dreamless void.


	27. Twenty-Seven

Even with his strength and stamina, Krogan found that his calves burned as he hiked through the mountainous Reach region. He had left early the day after Arnbjorn returned, before the moons had fully set, and barely rested in his travels. Perhaps that wasn’t the most energetically viable way to prepare for an attack on the steward…

Unlike much of Skyrim, the Reach had little tree cover, and the sun beat down on Krogan’s heavy armour, sizzling against the metal. He paused for a moment and brushed sweat from his strong brow, and gazed out over the steep landscape. He had faced no hostility from the one or two Forsworn he had crossed paths with, and he wondered if that signified a strengthening of Madanach’s forces. 

Druadach Redoubt was nearby, if memory served him. He hoped Madanach still resided there even several months after his escape. His pace slowed from the near-run he had been walking at to a more casual stroll as he scanned the nearby crags and nooks for the hidden cavern. The river running below was probably a good place to start. Most settlements rested near some kind of body of water.

The gentle song of windchimes reached his ears the closer he drew to the slow lazy stream, and he followed it towards the beginnings of a dirt path that climbed windingly up a crested by the side of a larger peak. The path was marked solely by the bone chimes clinking in the breeze, but it was enough to tell Krogan he had found the right place. Taking the path rewarded his attention to detail; two tents directed his gaze to a minute opening in the rocks, guarded by a pair of axe-wielding Reachfolk. 

He raised a hand in greeting. They recognized him, and while they said nothing, nodded in return, and let him enter the grotto. It was a solid choice for a hideout, with a long tunnel that led to a wooden bridge over a little creek before finally opening up to the main room. Since he had last been at the Redoubt, Madanach had expanded on his abode. Multiple tents, tanning racks, and bedrolls were scattered across the mossy floor, mostly attended by Forsworn Krogan didn’t recognize, or Forsworn from the Mine. At the widest part of the brook, a Reachman cared for a small crop of grains and potatoes, with singular goat being milked by another person. The dwelling gave way to an ascending ledge, at each level of which was a different aspect of the Forsworn’s life. The very top level housed Madanach, hunched over a table with a Briarheart woman who spoke to him under her breath.

“Hey.”

Both turned around. Madanach smiled. The Briarheart did not, but her eyes were welcoming. 

“The Wolf of Markarth,” she said the title she had given him, perhaps trying to recall his actual name. Her voice was low, but not quiet. Her breast was covered in blood, likely from her heart, and she had not bothered to clean it. He supposed there was no reason. She did not have to hide it anymore. “Not stronger than the Bear, yet the potential...when surrounded by others, the potential is there.”

“Our friend from the mine. Hello!” More upbeat and less cryptic, Madanach rubbed his calloused palms together. “This is where it will begin. A new uprising…”

“What do you want? I’m sure you didn’t come out here just to visit.” The Briarheart looked him in the face unwaveringly. “You must want something.”

He sighed. “Alestrine, a woman as smart as you shouldn’t even have to ask.”

“You’re going to kill someone in Markarth, and you want us to take the credit.” It wasn’t a question or a guess. It was a statement of fact. She was right, and she knew it without his confirmation. 

Krogan nodded. 

“Someone important,” she continued. “High-profile. Someone we’d probably kill anyway, and isn’t one of us. At least, that’s what you’re going to say.”

“Yup. Look. The Dark Brotherhood is...in a bit of a pinch. Someone betrayed and killed our leader, and told the Penitus Oculatus how to find us, and we’re trying to track down who it is. Raerek in Markarth was amongst the Penitus Oculatus’ records as having done business with them, so he may have something to do with it. I’m going to kidnap and interrogate him, but...loose ends, you know?”

Alestrine chewed on the tip of her pinky. Madanach rubbed his mustache between his index finger and thumb. 

“The steward of Markarth, huh...you think he’s had dealings with the Penitus Oculatus?” the King in Rags asked.

The Daughter of the Reach reached for her quarterstaff and put all her weight on it, holding herself up with just the stave. “A man his age wouldn’t join the Dark Brotherhood, even if it was for their destruction. And he’s so cautious. Are you really investing time in this?”

Krogan folded his arms across his chest. “To be honest, I don’t think it was him at all. But my sister doesn’t want to face the idea it might have been one of her friends, and his age doesn’t rule him out. Old Festus had to have been at least seventy. And it’ll help your cause a bit.”

Alestrine and Madanach exchanged a glance. 

“I haven’t even come close to gathering the forces I want. My capture and Alestrine abandoning us when she was younger have set back our rebellion by years, and made negotiations with the surviving clans difficult. They’ve scattered without my leadership, and are unwilling to listen to her. Killing Raerek might start a war that we aren’t prepared for. I don’t know that we should get involved.”

“Wait. Counterpoint.” Alestrine shifted her weight again and tapped the end of her staff against the dirt to punctuate her sentence. “Raerek’s dealings probably have something to do with the Forsworn threat to the Empire and Skyrim. He has been urging the Jarl to wait for us to move, but after the break, he might think differently. My influence over the few bands I have successfully met with has lowered attacks on Reach-descended citizens and families with children. It’s possible the Nords are taking this as a sign that we’re withdrawing to regroup.”

Then, hastily, she added, “Sir.”

“That’s true too…” Madanach rested a hand on his hip. “Well, then, Alestrine. What do you think we should do?”

“M-me?” Alestrine stammered, pointing at herself. 

“You’re the one arguing in our friend’s favour. And I have no children,” Madanach reminded her. “Had she survived the Markarth Incident, your mother would be the one to take my place after my death. You now have her duty. Along with my ally, you will be my heir. You must learn to make decisions like this now, so that should the Nords make an attempt to dethrone you as they did me, you can succeed where I failed.”

She nodded. “R-right...um, Krogan. When you kidnap the steward, after you kill him, leave his body in the palace. And…” 

The Reachwoman plucked a war hatchet from her belt.

“This is one of my unenchanted axes. Leave it with his body. It will suffice as a message that we took his life, while also leaving room for speculation. That should keep the finger of judgement off of your organization. Just make sure nobody sees your face.” She tilted her bo towards him, and put her axe back on her hip. “You will take this axe from me before you leave in exchange for your armour, and sneak into Understone Keep. If you return, and you still have that thing, I am going to assume you failed to stick to our plan, and I won’t give your armour back. Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Madanach eyed Alestrine approvingly. “Very good. Then, Krogan, our Wolf of Markarth, the deal is made. Follow Alestrine’s instructions, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Fine. I can handle that.”

The elderly Forsworn took his leave, and Krogan and Alestrine faced each other. 

She pushed her long black ponytail over her shoulder. “You do wear clothes under your armour, right?”

“What?”

“When you take off your armour. You do have clothing on, right?”

“Of course. What kind of dumb question is that?” Krogan’s face felt hot.

“Just making sure. It would be inconvenient to have to find something someone your size could wear around here.” She shrugged. “I expect you to leave at night, and finish the job before dawn. You will handle the guards however you like, but there best be no witnesses.”

Krogan stared down at her. “You’re saying this like you’re the one who wants Raerek dead to begin with.”

“You came this far to demand our help. We can’t have your affairs interfering with our plans. The stakes are high, and you’re making them higher with your organization’s problems. I’m not Brotherhood. I couldn’t care less about who betrayed your leader. My people are my priority, and putting ourselves out there for your plan endangers us further. You’re just lucky enough that I like you.”

“Hmph. I can do this by myself, you know. I just thought maybe you would want an opening to strike fear into Markarth again.”

Her fingers danced along her stave. “It’s a gamble either way. Ultimately, the Nords don’t know what we’re planning, and we don’t know what they’re planning.”

“Isn’t that true for everything?”

Alestrine sighed and sat down on a protruding rock, laying her weapon at her feet. Krogan noticed that the graying hair around her temples had become more silver than it had been when they’d met, and the wrinkles across her forehead had deepened despite her being barely thirty. “Now you’re finally understanding.”

“Huh?”

“We don’t have any guarantees. Every day is a potential battle. Cidhna was only a part of the picture. Being of the Reach is difficult when your blood isn’t Nord or Imperial.” Her hand slipped between the sinews of her heart and felt around the cavity in her chest. “You have to make a choice. Do you obey the Nords, and abandon your culture and gods? Or do you leave, keeping your identity but committing unspeakable acts?”

She looked across the Redoubt, from Madanach and his maps down to the farmer and his goat. “Your Brotherhood faces consequences for your actions. My people face consequences for our birth. Understand that, and humble yourself before you approach me with demands next time.”

Krogan didn’t respond. He knew she was right, but he was too proud to admit it. Strangely, he felt no anger towards her, though the implications of her words should have probably ignited a rage in him.

“I will help you, if you follow my instructions. But don’t get used to it. You’re not my priority. And you won’t ever be.”


	28. Twenty-Eight

“Well.” Alestrine approached him. “It’s time. The moons have almost reached their peak. It’s about two hours till midnight. Do you remember what I told you?”

“Yeah...give you my armour, take the axe, and leave it with his body before dawn.”

“That’s right. Now go. You may change in one of the unoccupied tents. I will wait here for you. Bring me your armour when you’re done.”

Krogan complied, and handed her his Nordic carved armour in exchange for her unenchanted war axe. “Be done before dawn, eh?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Fine.”

“Good luck. You will need it.”

She said nothing further, instead turning her back on him, and he took that as his cue to leave. The sky was clear and open, with just a few wispy clouds drifting lazily past the stars and the rippling green aurora borealis.

His path was well-lit by the heavens, and he remembered the route he had taken from the main road to the Redoubt. He chose not to take the most direct way, however, and instead walked further into the mountains, with the intention of bypassing the walls and guards entirely. 

The one issue was the tower. He could be seen from that tall structure protruding above the rest of the stone city. But if he approached from the other side…

Time, too, was important. If he wanted his armour back, he would have to get everything right to the very second. 

The crags became steeper the closer he grew to Markarth itself. He knew that the cliff faces would become almost sheer when he reached the settlement. He wasn’t sure how much of a climber he was, either. 

He was certain of one thing, though. He had a plan- he just had to enact it without getting caught. 

There was a Dwemer ruin in Understone Keep, an expansive and largely unguarded one. If he could get Raerek to Nchuand-Zel without being seen, he could kill the man and get his body placed properly without ever leaving the Keep. If only he’d asked Yolskja for that knife Hekatah had made…

He could just kill the guards. That would do. Alestrine just wanted to make sure his identity remained concealed. War axes weren’t his strong suit, but he knew how to make the thing work. 

As long as none of them sounded an alarm...but first he had to get inside. 

The Keep was rested beneath a sheer bluff. A waterfall marked the two entrances, tumbling two stories to the river below. One was missing its guards- Forsworn activity, or something more sinister? It didn’t matter. He would enter that way. 

The mountains became more and more unfriendly the closer he came to the palace. He found it difficult to stay balanced as the ground became rockier and the sides more extreme. Perhaps someone with a more petite form, or a more delicate touch should have taken this part of the job...but no, he could do it. 

He finally reached the source of the waterfall, a river too wide to jump. It was slow-moving up till the edge, but even if it was safe to swim, he couldn’t go around dripping wet, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to carry out this mission in the nude. So he followed it further upstream, watching the moons as they rose further with no regard for his schedule, until he could cross without getting water on his clothes. 

Masser and Secunda climbed yet further above him. The clock was ticking. Such a high jump was dangerous...but Krogan had no other choice...acrobats, what did they do when they jumped from a high place...they rolled, right?

He took a deep breath, and fell. His body collided with the stone balcony heavily, and he was pretty sure he’d fucked up his shoulder, but he survived...had any guards heard him hit the ground? He didn’t think so. Still, he made sure to slip into the Keep quickly. 

Ah. That’s why this entrance had no guards. It wasn’t an entrance to the Keep, but rather to the court wizard’s study. 

Damn it. He didn’t know how to get anywhere from there. He would have to go back outside and try the main entrance…

Markarth sure was a fortified city, he thought to himself. This job was no joke...he’d really underestimated what he was up against. It began to dawn on him why Madanach and Alestrine were so uneager to act. 

He rubbed his shoulder sorely. Having to move with this level of stealth...without his armour...he wasn’t used to it. His back was getting kind of stiff, the way it did when he was stressed, and he wasn’t sure why; rules didn’t actually mean anything, just that Alestrine would keep his armour...he could buy another set. Although he supposed if he was seen the plan would collapse…still, he couldn’t stand around monologuing. He had kidnapping to do.

There were two guards below at the right doors. He could hear them talking to each other and shifting around. How long was it between shifts? Could he kill them, finish his mission and get out without someone discovering the bodies?

He didn’t have a choice. He dropped down to their level and before they could speak, their throats had been hacked. The blood that splashed across the walls and path would pose a threat- but in a moment of brilliance, he tossed the corpses beneath the falls, where they floated subsurface alongside the skeletons of others who had faced a similar fate.

The palace doors opened silently, and he stepped inside as gently as he could. Arnbjorn was his size, he thought, and yet the hulking Nord was so much more stealthy than he. How? Krogan could handle short bursts of caution, like he had when he slew the carriage driver in Falkreath...gods, that felt like it had been years ago. 

The steward- Krogan seemed to recall that he slept in the general quarters across the hall from the housecarl…

Most of the Keep was surprisingly devoid of guards, perhaps because there were supposed to be some at the only entry. There was one, however, that paced back and forth between the bedrooms and the room formerly inhabited by a Thalmor Hekatah had seduced and slain for her stupid spider goddess. 

He waited, as patiently as someone of his temperament could, until the footsteps became almost inaudible, and then he forced the steward’s door open. The old Nord sat bolt upright, awakened by the sound of his lock breaking, but he found Krogan’s rough hand over his lips and nose, pushing him back down before he could say a thing.

“Keep your mouth shut and you might make it out of here alive,” the Orc growled. “I was gonna drag you to that Dwemer ruin, but I think we can chat here as long as you cooperate. You think we can make that happen?”

Raerek’s eyes were wide and panicked, but he gave a slight nod. Krogan kept his palm where it was as he continued. “I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions. You’re gonna answer me. If I like the answers I get, I’ll let you go. If I don’t, I kill you. But don’t even think about trying to lie to me. There’s stuff going on in this city that would ruin your family if I happened to let it...slip. Don’t think I haven’t found out about the Talos worship you let happen here. And I bet...that if I took a look around here, you’re probably still a Talos worshipper too, aren’t you?”

He released his grip. 

“What do you want?” Raerek gasped for air. 

“I did a little snooping around the Penitus Oculatus. Your name is in their financial records, but it doesn’t explain what you were paid for. I want to know.”

“Me? Paid…?” Raerek’s voice trailed off, and then it hit him. “I wasn’t paid, I hired extra men for the guard force. Against…”

His gaze rested on the Forsworn axe at Krogan’s hip, and he went silent. 

“So you had nothing to do with what happened in Falkreath, then?”

“What?” 

“The Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary. The raid on it. You had nothing to do with that.”

“Gods, no!”

Krogan stared down at the man for a moment, and neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, hesitantly, with a tremor in the words, Raerek asked, “Is that all you want?”

“Yeah…” Krogan began to rise from his kneeled position, and then paused. “Actually, there is one more thing.”

He pulled the war axe, the blade of which was slowly turning brown as the blood dried, from his side. “Loose ends, you know?”

Raerek opened his mouth, but no scream ever reached his wardens. Krogan brought the hatchet down on his throat swiftly and soundlessly, and a spurt of scarlet erupted from the fatal blow. Briefly, his neck spouted, and his limbs spasmed, and then the veins died with him and he lay still. 

Krogan rested the tomahawk on his corpse with a sigh. There was no need to place the remains anywhere; the guards would find him in the morning. What a waste of time...still, he was glad to have finally done some killing. It had been too damn long, and he missed the feeling. Sure, slaying an elderly man in his bed wasn’t the most admirable or challenging of murders, but it would do for now. 

Outside, the sky was beginning to turn pink, but the sun had not yet raised its head. He had accomplished his task as instructed. 

Alestrine was waiting for him as she had said she would be when he returned to the Redoubt. A Briarheart, he supposed, had no need to sleep. His armour rested behind her, and when she saw him, she scanned him up and down. 

“You do not have the axe.”

“I don’t.”

“So he’s dead, then? And he was not your man.”

“You’re right, as always...can I have my armour back? I need to get back to the others.”

She nodded. “Of course. Good luck finding your spy.”

There was a faint smile on her green-inked lips, and Krogan couldn’t help but return it. 

“You too. Maybe we’ll cross paths again after we figure our shit out.”

“I hope we do. Farewell, Wolf of Markarth.”

“See ya...Daughter of the Reach…”


	29. Twenty-Nine

The air about the Brotherhood was different as the next assassin prepared to leave. This journey was more personal than the others had been, throwing the Dunmer woman back into the trauma of the raid, and as she readied herself for the trip she couldn’t help but feel a bit ill. 

“Please be careful,” Yolskja’s hand trembled when she delicately stroked Hekatah’s scars. “If you can’t get into the Sanctuary, for whatever reason, just quit. We can retrieve everything later…”

“You better listen to her,” Krogan scowled. “You don’t need to push yourself into a mental breakdown over some shitty Daedra. Remember, you’re after the Jarl, not your Ebony Blade.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Hekatah, but there was a waver in her voice, and she lacked the fight Krogan had tried to draw out of her with his rude remarks about her religion. “It’s no use dwelling on everything…I should just go.”

She made for the door, but Arnbjorn stopped her. 

“Hang on. If you do manage to get to the place, there’s something I wanted to tell you about. The pool next to the Door- my wife had this creature. She called it Shadowmere. It lives in that pool. I don’t think you should bring it here...for reasons you’ll find out when you see it, but...Astrid loved that thing. Could you...check on it for me?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It should show up if you just call for it there…”

Hekatah tilted her head back to look up at him with those buglike eyes that now seemed to carry a permanent sense of sadness to them. “Yeah...I can do that…”

“Thanks, tidbit,” he put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t overdo it though, okay? Just get the Jarl and come back if you don’t think you can- you know.”

She shrugged it off. “Yeah. I’ll be okay. I’ll try to bring back what I can.”

And then she turned her back to them and began hurriedly to Falkreath’s woods. Kidnapping, interrogating, and killing the Jarl was quite a job, but even such a prominent target was no match for the emotional task she faced in attempting to return to what was left of their Sanctuary. 

Unlike the rest, there was no part of her that was burning for a murder. She wasn’t really the kind of person who killed for fun, but rather someone who had gotten wrapped up in the twisted world of contract killers by birth and by fate. Not that she was above homicide, no, but it wasn’t her hobby. It was just a necessity, something that had to happen so her life could go on smoothly. She did it for her loved ones, and sometimes for herself, and in that sense she was a bit odd amongst her peers. 

There was satisfaction in watching the life fade from someone who had wronged her, but that satisfaction came from the fulfillment of her vengefulness, not the act itself. Her motivation was always anger or love. 

That, perhaps, was why even killing Jarl Siddgeir did not excite her. If he was, somehow, the responsible party for her suffering, for the suffering of everyone she cared about, then she would take pleasure in his death. If not...well, he was just another job, and she was just a worker. 

Astrid...Astrid was the reason she had joined at all. If the person who had recruited her had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have bothered. But Astrid, when Hekatah saw her, heard her voice, Astrid had ensnared her heart, and so Hekatah had dedicated herself to her entirely, and now she felt lost. 

She missed the others too, of course, in a different way. She’d never seen eye-to-eye with Festus, but it had still been fun to exchange magic ideas with him and Gabriella, and gossip with the other Dunmer over dinner, and Veezara was quiet, but he was a friendly conversationalist when he wanted to be, and Nazir was quick-witted and sharp-tongued and no matter what she threw at him he had a clever response that always made her laugh, and gods, she missed them all so much. The guilt weighed on her heavily, that she had been the only one to survive the initial attack, that she had failed to defend herself and cost Festus his life, that she had lost consciousness before she could save Nazir, she felt the unspeakable burden of her guilt and shame with every waking moment.

And Arnbjorn...she hurt for him more than anything, more than her own anguish...they had loathed one another at first, fought often, but over the years she had grown to love him, and it was harder to face than it was with Astrid, who she was too flustered by to become close with, because he was her friend, but she had to admit at least to herself that she was in love with him as awful as it felt and if she could take his pain onto herself, she would gladly do so.

The sting of tears pricked at her nose, and she shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t start crying in the middle of the street. 

Time wasn’t something she often paid attention to. She had no idea how many hours passed as she walked almost robotically, taking the road as mechanically as Dwemer mechanisms paced their halls, until suddenly it occurred to her that the sky was dark. 

Her camp was simple, tucked away against a cave, and she sat on her bedroll in front of her small fire staring up at the stars, and she found herself praying to Azura to numb the torment gnawing at her from within. Alone in the wilderness, there was nothing to distract her from her despair, nothing but the never-ending galaxy above her and the gods she served wholeheartedly. 

When she slept, it was fitful, and when she woke it was in a bit of a tired daze, and she repeated that cycle until finally the browning leaves of Falkreath’s woods greeted her for the first time since the raid. She inhaled deeply, feeling her pulse accelerate to an unhealthy pace, and then delved into the wild to find the Sanctuary she had once called home.

Her hands rested on her dual glass daggers, their cyan blades shining in the sunlight that worked its way through the thinning canopy. If anything should come for her, she would not let them take her this time.

The closer she drew the weaker she felt, as if her knees would buckle and give up at any moment. Memories began to flood back into her mind, memories that she had tried to forget, and the scars on her face and body began to sear like they were freshly inflicted. 

But what she found when she finally reached that desolate ruin was beyond anything she could have anticipated. There were Agents, yes, who she had expected to guard the place should someone like her be dumb enough to return, but they were dead, their bodies cut a thousand times, and over them stood a small Imperial in a jester’s clothes. Nearby was a carriage, holding a suspicious, large wooden box that was almost too big to fit.

She drew the daggers. “Who are you?”

He whipped around, and brandished a blade of his own. “Cicero would ask the same of you!”

“I asked you first. What the fuck are you doing here, killing Agents, with...that?!”

“With that?” he echoed. “With what?”

She gestured at the cart with one knife, holding the other in front of her body. “That- that thing! What is that, and why is it here?”

“What do you care? Stranger! Why are you here...at Mother’s new home?”

“New...home…?”

“Oh, yes! I’m transporting my dear, sweet Mother...or, not her. Her corpse. She’s quite dead, you see! But this was to be her new crypt...and yet look at it! All burnt up...infested by these pesky guards…! Oh, Cicero heard the rumours...but now what will he do?!” The clown grabbed at his hat. “How will he find his Family?! Perhaps...Dawnstar? But no, only Cicero knows the password…”

She lowered her arm. “Wait, you- you must be Brotherhood, then…”

He stopped his pacing. “What did you say? Are you...one of us? One of the Night Mother’s unholy children?”

“I...I don’t understand what’s going on, but...what’s left of us...we don’t have anywhere to stay. We can’t get into the Dawnstar Sanctuary.”

“You don’t understand? You don’t know the Night Mother? That blasphemer Astrid still hasn’t taken to the Old Ways?”

A hot flash of rage shot through Hekatah and she darted forward, holding her weapon against Cicero’s neck. “You speak ill of Astrid one more time, and you won’t live to explain.”

He jabbed her ribs with his knife and pushed her away. “Oooh, touchy!”

She closed the inflicted wounds. “I’m serious, you little shit.”

“But where? Where is she? Cicero came all the way here to meet with her...but now everything’s all scattered! He can’t find anyone...except you, of course.”

“She’s dead.” Hekatah answered shortly. “And so is almost everyone else.”

“Dead?! Dead?!”

“Don’t make me say it again.” She blinked hard. 

“But then...we still have no Listener, and no Sanctuary. Oh, there’s Dawnstar, but it’s abandoned…!”

“What’s the password?”

“What?”

“To the Dawnstar Sanctuary. What is it?”

“Why, it’s innocence!” Cicero clapped his hands together. “But the Sanctuary is in pieces, you must understand! It’s all wired with tricks and traps and heavy defense, and it’s falling apart!”

“We can fix it. Listen, fool. You take your...Night Mother to Dawnstar. Disarm the damn place. We’ll meet you there once we start arranging for repairs...and take care of some stuff.”

He studied her for a long moment before nodding with a dramatic heave of his shoulders. “Fine, fine. I’ll pack up and go. Cicero can take a hint…”

“That’s a good skill to have,” she murmured as she watched him leave. “Gods, what a nightmare…and I still have…”

Her gaze travelled up the Black Door, which months later still seemed to be weeping rust, and her breath hitched. 

“This…”


	30. Thirty

In the midst of her panic that dreadful day, Hekatah had not truly understood just how destroyed the Sanctuary was. When she stepped inside, and bore witness to the crumbling walls, her heart ached and she clutched at her chest. The scene was both exactly how she remembered it, and somehow much, much worse. The bodies of the many, many Agents were gone, but scraps of their armour remained amongst the burn marks and oily residue marring the broken stone in a chilling callback to the assault that had nearly killed her.

As she moved about the Sanctuary gathering everything that she could, everything that wasn’t irreparably ruined, she was flooded with memories, both good and bad. She remembered when Astrid had brought her to the Sanctuary, and she had first greeted her new Family. She remembered getting a rude introduction from Arnbjorn, and responding in kind with spitefulness. She remembered enthusiastically taking contracts, waiting to hear if Astrid had approved of her work. She remembered fighting with Arnbjorn, and paying a good portion of her pocket change to Nazir, and she remembered when she first got a compliment from the werewolf and her heart skipped a beat in spite of herself. She remembered making fun of the men with Gabriella and Babette, and accidentally blowing up Festus’ enchantment table trying to prove a point. 

But she also remembered the fight that had taken almost all of them from her, and her body ached as she saw stains of what was probably her own blood mixed with the others’ on the stone floor. She almost felt the heat of the flames on her skin as she pressed further inwards to her quarters, and for once the thought of fire bothered her. But she had to get that Blade, at least...even if she could hardly stand the surge of flashbacks dashing through her mind. 

She steadied herself against the walls, which in some places were still slick with petroleum, and climbed what remained of the wooden stairs to the Dark Brotherhood’s rooms. The Blade was there, untarnished by the violence that had taken place around it, propped up neatly against her bed like she had left it ages ago, and she took it in her hands fondly. 

_Child...you return to me._ The voice was breathy, with a loving undertone, and Hekatah’s spirits rose. 

“Me lady, I…”

_I know. Suffering and heartbreak are functions of my realm. I am aware of it always._

“I’m sorry.”

_Worry not, my dearest. Just take the Blade, and go. Continue your path of betrayal across Skyrim._

“Yes, me lady.”

She placed the Blade in its sheath on her back, and its lightweight pressure made her feel more at peace. Having it with her gave her a sense of protection, as if it carried Mephala within the folds of the metal. If only now she could retrieve her fallen friends, her dead love, with such simplicity…

Azura’s Star...she shook her head. The other Daedric artifact she had come for...she kept it in a small chest beneath her bed, and it, like Mephala’s Ebony Blade, was untouched, as glimmeringly beautiful as ever even amongst the death and destruction. It did not speak. Azura did not talk to her. But, as she held the small silver relic in her palm, she remembered that Azura had sworn to watch over her, even if she never communicated. 

A tang of bitterness soured Hekatah’s lips. So much for that promise, she thought. Then again..._she_ had survived, when perhaps she should not have, and she still had Arnbjorn and Yolskja and Babette and Krogan...so...maybe, just maybe, the fickle goddess had kept her oath.

The Star took its place at Hekatah’s left hip, like it had before she became...what she was now. There was a semblance of innocence to the way she felt with both the katana and the gem back at her side, a brief illusion of her life when she was only twenty-four, a year before she would become trapped in Skyrim by a decision she did not regret, but wished she had thought through. 

For a moment, she stayed where she was, amongst the things she had collected like a fool, amongst the clothes and books and the odd little jewel that she had compiled as if that would fix anything, and then- oh, gods- then faint footsteps reached her ears...had more Agents arrived to relieve the ones outside, only to find their corpses and come to avenge them?

She drew her daggers and followed the sound, only to find the Sanctuary empty. She must have been hearing things...ghosts of the battle that had scarred her forever...it was time to go, then. Her mind was becoming too fragile to stay. 

There was an impression of watchful eyes on her back as she began her way towards the exit. Still, nothing caught her attention when she looked over her shoulder to check. Perhaps...the spirits of those lost to the Empire were guarding her. 

The stiffness in her shoulders began to fade the moment the Black Door closed behind her. Being there again...she had the urge to start crying, but she was ashamed to let the tears fall when she had spent so much time weeping.

In her arms, she held a bag of all that she had salvaged, and as silly as it seemed to go digging through rubble, having some of their possessions back was in a way calming. She knew it was absurd, that the material remnants meant nothing, that it wouldn’t bring back the dead or heal the wounds forever disfiguring Arnbjorn’s face, but it was something, at least. No one could fault her for seeking a bit of comfort. 

And thinking of Arnbjorn, she stared into the black pool outside the Sanctuary that he claimed housed Shadowmere- whatever Shadowmere was. She didn’t see anything within its shadowy depths, which were a mesmerizing shade of pure darkness, still, but lapping slightly at the bank even though it was sheltered from the wind. 

“Shadowmere?” she said the word softly, unsure of what to expect. 

At first, there was no answer. Then, the centre of the pool began to boil, and black smoke, pitch black, like nothing she’d ever seen before, rose from the murky bubbles, and the steady, unmistakable beat of a horse’s galloping hooves surrounded her from every side. An unnatural chill penetrated her skin, but it wasn’t one of fear. Then the surface of the water erupted as a great black horse, whose fur carried undertones of red, burst forth. It reared back, nostrils flared, and then shook out its mane. Its shrewd eyes were a vibrant scarlet, but there was no malice in the glowing crimson. It walked towards her slowly, muscles rippling beneath its satin coat, and she saw that the saddle it wore was emblazoned with the Dark Brotherhood insignia. 

It lowered its head down to her level, and waited. Reluctantly, she rested a hand on its nose, and then, feeling it was velvety and warm, stroked it. This seemed to please the animal. It snorted and nuzzled her cheek, and she ran her palm down its neck. 

“So, you’re the thing Arn told me to check on...you’re gorgeous, I can see why Astrid loved you so much.”

Shadowmere’s ears twitched at the mention of its former master, and Hekatah buried her face in its pelt. “She’s dead. I’m sorry.”

The horse stomped a hoof, and she heard its tail swish violently.

“I’m really sorry. I wish...I could’ve saved her…Arnbjorn’s still around...we still have him...you must’ve met him, right?”

Shadowmere chuffed, which she took as a yes.

“He asked me to check on you...for Astrid’s sake. He didn’t want me to take you back to Morthal with me, but…” she pulled back, and made eye contact with the beast, whose gaze was far more intelligent than that of an average steed. “You can probably stay in the woods until we make for Dawnstar, right? We can find you...something...somewhere to live...I think it would be good to have you around.”

She stepped away, and Shadowmere turned its attention to the corpses. Its mouth opened slightly, revealing that it was not a normal horse in that aspect either. What should have been an equine muzzle was more akin to that of a dog, and Hekatah almost thought she saw sharp eyeteeth lining its gums. In equal parts disgust and fascination, she watched it tear into the dead Oculatus soldiers, right through their armour, and begin eating. 

Her jaw dropped. “What...are you…?”

The being tilted its head slightly, a hunk of flesh hanging out of its maw, and blinked as if it didn’t understand the question. To it, this kind of behaviour must have been perfectly normal and unquestioned, and finally, Hekatah was afraid of it. “I- I’m sorry, I’ve just...never seen a horse like you.”

It seemed to smile at her, and she looked at her feet. “So...I have to go into town tonight, but...I can come back later, and take you to Morthal…can I leave this stuff with you?”

Shadowmere dipped its head and returned to its grisly meal. With a sigh, Hekatah sat down beneath a tree, and observed as Shadowmere ate not one, but both of the dead Imperials in their entirety. Not even skeletons were left when it was done.

“I heard once that a pack of slaughterfish can strip a man down to his bones in just two minutes,” Hekatah rested her chin in her hands. “They never warned me about what horses could do.”


	31. Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for body horror in this chapter

The dramatic shadows cast by the trees surrounding Falkreath enveloped Hekatah’s small form. Cloaked in black, hidden by the clouds and plant life, she spun one of her daggers between her fingers, watching, waiting, and planning. She was not fool enough to try and question the arrogant Jarl within his longhouse. He was the type that would call his Housecarl the moment he saw her. She would have to silence him, and remove him from the village. 

Despite what Neloth had expected, she had in fact managed to replicate the spell he used to incapacitate Arnbjorn and Krogan, with a little bit of help from Talvas and his tendency to ‘borrow’ Neloth’s notes. Though she had yet to try it out, she was sure she was capable. She had to be...

She sheathed her blade again, and looked down at the ring she had made in Tel Mithryn. It bore a dual-purpose enchantment, enhancing both her stealth and her magicka. She had imbued it with such powers specifically for jobs like this. If she was honest, she had created it for this exact quest. Such a high-standing mark...most of her contracts had been at richest business owners, never outright royalty...

She’d thought at the time that the little accessory was no more than an extra precaution. Now, lurking behind a well and observing her surroundings, Hekatah began to think it might not be enough. The Jarl’s longhouse was towards the northern edge of town, but it was also right next to the guard’s barracks, and the closest path to the woods was along the main road. If only she knew how to cast Invisibility…in the daylight, the task had seemed undaunting, especially compared to the challenge of returning to the Sanctuary. But in the night, faced with the very real threat of failing her mission and irreparably screwing herself over, the sinking sickness of anxiety settled in her stomach.

The morbid settlement was almost dead, with only a few guards patrolling its streets. Their faces were concealed by the iron helms they wore, but even the most obtuse person could tell they were on edge. They walked with their hands on their hilts, or twitching towards their bows, heads swiveling on their necks like a dancing cobra.

There was a break in the guards’ routes that consistently gave her an opening. Once she was sure it was part of the pattern, she darted across the backroads path adjacent to the alchemy shop and barracks, and hid herself in the shade cast by the unusual shape of the longhouse’s walls. She’d been inside the residence a few times before, and was pretty sure she knew which part was the Jarl’s bedroom. 

Her back was pressed up against the wooden planks, and she moved slowly towards the window, holding her breath. Each careful step seemed deafeningly loud, but the watchmen strewn about did not notice. Finally, after what felt like years, her shoulder bumped the windowsill of Siddgeir’s bedroom. 

A mage of her standing really should have been able to open the thatch with magic, she chided herself as she plucked a lockpick from the folds of her sleeve. Still, any means to an end, and her dextrous work was just as swift as any spell. The lock clicked, and she slid the window open. It wasn’t large, but neither was she; slipping in unnoticed was child’s play. Perhaps...perhaps she could pull this off after all. 

Siddgeir lay in his bed, asleep as far as she could tell, and unaware of the intruder. A rush of excitement hit her. Killing was mundane in and of itself, but the pride of taking out a Jarl, and one who was as annoying as Siddgeir, that was a reward all on its own. 

A red glow illuminated her left hand. How had Neloth cast the spell...it was a bit unusual, she recalled that...ah. 

It was a kind of attack that was a bit dangerous if you weren’t careful, but there were times when Erandur’s monkhood, and his insistence upon passing his knowledge to her, served her well. She crossed the room swiftly but soundlessly, raised her hand above her head, and struck Siddgeir in the chest with two fingers. He gasped, his back arching in pain, and then he went still. So it had worked. Or had she ended him prematurely? She checked for a pulse. He was still alive. Good. 

The spell would wear off in ten or fifteen minutes if she had cast it exactly like Neloth had. That wasn’t a lot of time. Sure, she could try it again, but what were the ramifications of using it on someone multiple times in a row?

Falkreath, as a Hold, was ripe with caves and abandoned towers. As long as no guards saw her...she could probably escape into the wilderness with her quarry. She was fast- that was her primary skill in battle. 

Her family was Telvanni. She had a deep reservoir of Magicka, enhanced by the enchantments that she wore- her ring, and the circlet and amulet that once belonged to Savos Aren. If she kept a steady hand…

A gentle orange luminescence outlined Siddgeir and lifted him from his bed. Telekinesis was not a technique Hekatah was an expert in, but it was one she was competent at, and as long as she was meticulous in her movements…

The window was still open, letting in a gentle midnight breeze, and when the sentry had passed and there was a moment of invisibility, she dashed across the road and into the woods, her captive floating listlessly alongside her. 

Her heart was beating loudly in her ears, throbbing in her throat, and she felt jittery as the brief surge of adrenaline began to die. The worst of it was over...she had managed the worst of it…she just had to find somewhere to finish the interrogation, before the Jarl came to. 

What she found was less of a cave and more of a small enclave carved into the side of a mountain by the elements, but it would serve the same purpose. Even if it was more exposed...she could always just kill any witnesses…

A weak Paralysis spell was all that she could cast. In the past, her inability to fully paralyze a target had been frustrating, at times even dangerous, because she was able to freeze the body, but not the vocal cords or mouth. This situation, however, made her glad that she had never progressed that particular skill. Keeping Siddgeir from fleeing while also getting him to talk was exactly what she needed. 

She waited, more patiently now that she was out of the immediate danger of being caught by guards, for the charm to subside, and then as he opened his eyes she cast the Paralysis. “Hey.”

At first, confusion and perhaps a bit of fear twisted the self-assured king’s face, but quickly, his ever-present confidence settled in. “You’re a fool if you think you can get away with this.”

“You’re very cocky for someone at me mercy,” she answered cooly, tracing her lips with a finger. “Not even a question as to what’s going on?”

“What does it matter? You’ve clearly made the mistake of kidnapping me. My housecarl or guards will find you and kill you.”

“Nobody saw me. You’re stuck with me until you give me what I want.”

“And what is that?”

She smiled sweetly. “I want to know why you did business with the Penitus Oculatus before they raided the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary.”

“So you’re one of that lot, then,” Siddgeir’s words were lazy and unconcerned. “I suppose that explains why you were around here so often…it’s useless, you know. Even if some of you survived, the Empire won’t let you live that long.”

“You’re not a very well-liked Jarl,” Hekatah replied. “If I were to kill you, you wouldn’t be missed.”

“You speak rather harshly for someone who wants information from me.”

She leaned over him, a dangerous grin crossing her features. “Would you prefer that I got what I want the hard way? I’m a goddess of Restoration magic. I could torture you until the sun rises and leave you hale and hearty for another round tomorrow.”

Her arm extended towards him. The palm of her hand heated visibly, akin to the glare that ignites a metal pot when a fire is started beneath it and its contents begin to boil. “Do you want me to demonstrate?”

He recoiled, his smirk faltering. “That would be idiotic of you. I’ll call for help.”

“All the way out here? Nobody will hear you. And if anyone did come, I’ll kill them too.”

“What does it matter why I got paid anyway? I didn’t lead the charge.”

The casual, playful demeanor the Dunmer had worn vanished like a Spriggan into a tree. “So you had something to do with it.”

“Not really. I mean, I made them pay me for permission to operate within my Hold. Having the Emperor send in his elite to deal with things on my territory makes me look bad, you know. But the raid itself I didn’t handle. That was all Commander Maro...and you killed him.”

“So,” she said, and her voice, so lilting and light, had become low, in the way that voices do when someone is about to snap, “what you’re saying is, you would have prevented them from doing this if they hadn’t paid?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I would have.”

“So then,” she continued, and the flame in her palm became the golden sparkle of Restoration, “it _is_ your fault.”

Siddgeir opened his mouth to reply, but no such action was possible. Those wide eyes of hers became wider, and the scars striping her visage became distorted as she screamed wordlessly. 

It was rumoured within the province of Morrowind that the Telvanni Archmagister Aryon was prone to using Restoration magic to attack. Siddgeir had not heard those rumours, but if he had, what happened to him next would confirm that not only was the Telvanni man deranged enough to use healing practices as a macabre and deadly weapon, he had passed on such habits to his mad granddaughter.

His lips were melded shut, silencing his pained yell. She grabbed him, and his skin began to peel and burn, and then immediately the wounds closed, but they closed too much, and he watched, immobilized, as mounds of excess flesh exploded from his arms. 

But she wasn’t done, not at all. There was a crazed look in her wild stare, not one of delight, or sadism, but just hate, and the pure desire to cause him agony. His chest grew tight, and there was pressure, but nothing was causing it that he could see. An invisible fist closed around his heart, and her grin widened. 

“Do you want to see what’s happening inside you?” she rasped, and he tried to shake his head, but he was still helpless to her whims, and she slashed his forearm and far, far too much blood burst forth. It was unending, spraying from the wound like a waterfall. “Restoration magic can replace lost blood. But too much, and your heart will start to give in. The same thing can take place...with adrenaline.”

It was getting hard to breathe now, and he began to realize that his shortness of breath was not entirely related to his jaw being forcibly shut. A violent chill racked his body, but yet he found himself drenched with sweat. The blood was still flowing, and his arms continued to swell, and his head was pounding, he swore he could hear his own heartbeat but if that was his heartbeat then it was way, way too fast, and he tried to cough but he had no mouth, and he felt weak, his vision was blurring and black spots danced at the edge, and the pain in his chest grew unbearable. 

And yet still she was not satiated. She touched him again, and with what little sight he had left, he saw a rash erupt on his skin. His throat began to close, and though his pulse did not slow, it became almost unnoticeable save for the rapidness he felt in his veins. Then she fell back, tiny body shuddering as she tried to catch her breath, and as he finally went blind, he knew that it was over.


	32. Thirty-Two

If not for his clothes, the corpse would have been unrecognizable. Blue from lack of oxygen, mouth all but gone, swollen beyond belief, riddled with a disfiguring rash and extra flesh where it shouldn’t have been, Jarl Siddgeir was hardly even human anymore. 

Hekatah lay back against the enclave wall and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. There was a reason she so rarely used that kind of magic to kill. Her body was drained of all energy, her Magicka depleted almost to a dangerous point. Sweat trickled down her forehead through the king’s blood and dripped onto her collarbone. 

Her intent had not been to exercise the full control she could possess over a living being. She went into the assignment with her daggers sharpened, expecting to cut his neck when she was done, or stab his heart. But the rage and grief she had felt when she learned that he had been fully capable of preventing the raid…

Her eyelids felt heavy, and her limbs felt like lead, but she had to get up...she had to clean herself, find Shadowmere and leave before it was noticed that Siddgeir was missing. But she didn’t want to move. 

The level of excruciation she had inflicted on him should have pleased her. Usually, seeing someone she loathed writhe and suffer was the only part of killing that she ever drew joy from. Yet she felt nothing, just an empty exhaustion. 

Strenuously, she raised her hand and ran it through her hair and down her face, both of which were sticky and wet and reeked with the metallic tang of death. “C’mon, let’s get up…”

But she didn’t. She stayed there, waiting for her breath to return, until something nudged her side and she jolted, realizing that she had fallen asleep at some point. How reckless of her! Instinctively, she reached for her daggers, but the source of the sudden awakening was Shadowmere, whose horrid mouth was stained red. 

“You’re too damn smart,” she murmured. “Thank the Three you found me.”

With a grunt, she rose to her feet, and discovered that again, Shadowmere had fully consumed the dead, leaving only a coinpurse and some jewelry behind. 

“Okay...well...that’s another level of intelligence...you’re gonna take some getting used to, sera…” She tucked the treasures Shadowmere had not eaten in one of the many pouches hidden away in her robes. “I was gonna have you do that anyway but...I didn’t expect you to have a concept of monetary value…”

Shadowmere shook out its mane with a passive snort, and Hekatah approached it. The canvas full of what she had salvaged from the Sanctuary still hung from its saddle where she’d left it, and she placed one foot in the stirrups. 

“I, um, don’t really know how to ride,” she admitted sheepishly. “I mean- I’ve ridden guar...but horses…or...whatever you are.”

It snorted again, and tossed its head as if telling her to get on. She complied, a bit nervous, and took the reins. 

Shadowmere did not await her instruction, however, and once she was settled in the seat, it began trotting away.

“H-hey! What’re you-?!”

It ignored her protests, continuing along its own path, and eventually she stopped resisting. The supernatural beast weaved between the trees, moving at its own pace with no input from its passenger, before finally stopping at a secluded spring and reaching its neck around to nip her legs. 

She touched the now-dried blood coating her. “You scare me.”

But she understood the message and dismounted. The pond was clear, and cool, but not too cold, and she cleansed herself as the sky began to brighten. Once the gore was washed away, she turned back to Shadowmere, and it rested its chin atop her head contentedly. 

“Okay…” She smiled a bit despite herself, and pushed its big head away. “Can you get to Morthal without me help?”

It nodded. So, a bit clumsily, she climbed back atop the large steed, and allowed it to take whatever route it pleased.

Travelling on horseback halved the time it took to get from one point to another, and while it was good to get as far from Falkreath as she could in the wake of what she had done, a shorter journey meant less time to prepare how she would explain what she had discovered. It sounded ridiculous- a member nobody knew about, dressed as a jester, carting around a dead woman he called his mother? She knew it had something to do with those past traditions Astrid had mentioned in passing years ago...there were sometimes small arguments that broke out in the Brotherhood over ‘Old Ways’, but nobody had ever explained any of that to her, and she had never expected it to be relevant. She’d asked, once, asked Arnbjorn about it after he and Festus fought, but he’d shrugged off the question, told her not to worry about it, and she believed him.

She certainly wouldn’t tell them what Cicero had said about Astrid. If she was asked about the tears in her robes where the clown had jabbed her, she would blame it on the brush, some branch that had ripped at her clothes as she rode. 

The rest, she supposed, she would just tell as it had happened. Absurd as it was, it was true, and perhaps Babette could shed some light on the situation. 

A knot formed in her gut when she finally reached Hjaalmarch. Though the trip was quick, the foreboding task of trying to relay what had taken place had made it seem much, much lengthier.

Shadowmere came to a stop in the timbered wilds outside of Morthal and pawed the slushy ground. Hekatah patted its haunches, thanked it, and slid off its back, hitting herself in the shoulder with the saddlehorn as she did so. 

“Ow...I really don’t know what I’m doing…” She rubbed the afflicted spot and took the satchel of retrieved possessions. “Stay here, alright? Don’t let anyone see you.”

It was a bitter day in the swampy town, marked by harsh winds blowing over the marsh that pierced the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to be outside. Only the guards and mill workers were braving the particularly brutal weather, and Hekatah was not keen to join them. She practically ran to the door of Idgrod and Krogan’s house and would have thrown herself into the blazes if her robes were not still borrowed and flammable.

“Oh!” Idgrod jumped slightly as the frozen Dunmer pushed past her. “You’re back…”

“That was fast,” said Krogan, who was huddled over the flames alongside Babette. “I didn’t expect you for a few more days.”

“I took Shadowmere. Things got messier than I planned,” Hekatah tossed the bag aside and sat as close as she could to the fire. “It’s fine, it’s all fine, but I ended up using a lot of Magicka.”

“You...took Shadowmere?” Arnbjorn raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Nevermind that. Arnbjorn, what the fuck is that thing? It fucking eats corpses. It has a dog's mouth. You didn’t warn me it was like _that._”

“Oh, yeah,” the Nord scratched his neck. “I forgot to tell you. It’s carnivorous. Astrid called it a horse, but I don’t actually know what it is.”

“It’s too smart. I’m not quite used to it yet. But it seems friendly enough,” Hekatah shook her head. “Anyway. There’s another member.”

“A what?” A shadow of suspicion crossed Krogan’s face. 

“There’s another Dark Brotherhood member. He’s- a bit odd. A jester. Named Cicero. I found him in Falkreath. He knew the password to the Dawnstar Sanctuary, and said something about a Night Mother.”

Babette covered her mouth. “The Keeper is still alive?! I thought he died years ago!”

“Oh, what bullshit!” Arnbjorn burst out. “Festus is the only one who even gave a shit about that nonsense!”

Hekatah folded her arms. “I want an explanation. He was rambling about the Old Ways. None of you ever told me what those were.”

“Two hundred years ago, the Night Mother, Sithis’ wife, was the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. She heard the prayers of people looking to contract a kill, and would speak only to a Listener, who relayed the information to other assassins. She, and the Five Tenets, ruled us. The Keeper is the one who takes care of her.”

“She’s a _corpse_,” Hekatah put heavy emphasis on the word ‘corpse’. “You’re trying to tell me we listened to a dead body for hundreds of years?!”

“That’s what I said,” Arnbjorn grunted. “It’s crazy. This is why we’re in ruins.”

“Did you get the password?” Krogan interrupted. 

Hekatah nodded. “It’s innocence.”

“Then we should kill the clown. None of us know him- we can’t trust him!”

“It’s not that simple,” Hekatah grimaced. “He said the Sanctuary is in pieces, and that it’s loaded with traps and shit. I told him to go disarm them and that we would arrange for repairs. I don’t know how we’re gonna do that, though.”

“We should kill him.”

Babette bit her lip. “Krogan, the return of the Night Mother could help us...and Keeper is a sacred position.”

“I’m not taking orders from a dead old woman!” Krogan protested. “And why now? His timing sucks!”

Hekatah played with the rips in her gown. “It sounded like he’d been communicating with- with Astrid...and that...she died before she could tell us that he was coming.”

Arnbjorn let out a low growl. “Yeah, I can see why she’d have withheld that information...look, I’ll put up with this- this thing, but if he makes one wrong move, I’m eating him.”

“We’re all getting ahead of ourselves here,” Yolskja interjected, sitting down beside Hekatah and wrapping an arm around her. “What about your mission, sunshine? What did you find out? You said you ended up using a lot of your magic. Why’s that?”

“Lost me temper. It’s- Siddgeir wasn’t the spy or anything. It’s just...he made the Oculatus pay him and if they hadn’t, he’d’ve stopped them from raiding. So…”

Arnbjorn stared her down. “What exactly did you do?”

“I used me Restoration to kill him,” she said simply, and then added, “I overdosed him with adrenaline and forced him to produce too much blood. And I stimulated his immune system so he became deathly allergic to everything around him. He died of a heart attack and an allergic reaction.”

The werewolf blinked. “I...okay.”

“I made him overheal a cut,” she continued, with a kind of fervidness. “I wasted all his oxygen. Made him produce excess flesh. He didn’t look human when I was done. It...it was exhausting.”

“That’s...brutal,” Arnbjorn muttered. “I mean- impressive. But brutal. Not- that I can say anything.”

“Are you alright? You should probably get some rest,” Yolskja squeezed her shoulders. “As for the Sanctuary...regardless of the clown, Astrid was friends with Delvin Mallory. If I go to Riften, I can probably smooth things over with the Thieves Guild enough to get repairs started. And no, Krogan. I won’t kill Spikes if I see him.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll go to Dragon Bridge, then,” added Babette. “I can pretend I’m an orphan- inns will usually take in kids without families. It might take me a little while, but I’ll get the bartender to talk.”

Hekatah’s posture slumped. “Gods...I really hope it’s her...I don’t want to have to kill Paloine…I mean, I will...but I don’t want to...”

“Hey, don’t worry about that right now. We still have time.” Yolskja kissed her cheek. “Go take a nap, alright? I’ll start packing for Riften. It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. We can work this all out. I promise.”


	33. Thirty-Three

The Ragged Flagon looked fancier than ever. It nearly glittered with gold and wealth, populated now by multiple vendors and outlaws, clean and shiny, almost hiding the fact that it was located in a sewer. The Guild was doing quite well for itself, it seemed. In a way, the underground saloon was higher quality than the legal market above the river. The merchants had more wares and larger stalls, and the barkeep was busy with as many patrons as his little taproom could hold. If the air was a bit friendlier, she could have found herself believing it was an average settlement. 

Still, thieves were thieves, and the tavern was practically silent, with a coldness in the atmosphere, so that as she walked towards the joint her footsteps echoed, and all eyes turned towards her. None were welcoming. 

Until she had almost reached the pub, the only sound was that of her movement. Then, she heard the twang of a bowstring, and an arrow hurtled past, grazing her throat and bouncing off the stone. 

She turned her head to the source, a rather tall Bosmer woman with shaggy chartreuse hair and snakebite lip studs sitting atop a pile of crates at the wall near the bar, who smirked at her as she placed her bow on her back. 

“You missed,” Yolskja hissed, touching the lightly bleeding scrape on her neck. 

“If I’d wanted that to be fatal,” said the sharp-featured Wood Elf, auburn eyes narrowed smugly, “you wouldn’t be talking right now. Trust me when I say that. I’ve never missed a target, and I’m not gonna start with some two-bit ratty Nord.”

Yolskja wiped the blood on her pants and put her hand on her hip. “You’re cute. I’d kill you quickly.”

“Heard that before.” The other woman tugged at her collar.

“Maybe you’d like to hear it from someone who could actually go through with it for a change.”

“Let me know when you find that someone.”

Yolskja scowled, and the smirk on the Bosmer’s thin mouth widened. She jumped down from her perch, and, accompanied by a slightly shorter Nord man in heavy armour, approached Yolskja. 

“Just so we’re clear. My name’s Faedryl Ferndale. I’m the one who brought this shitshow back from the brink, and I’m the one who runs this place. My word is law- forget about Black-Briar and the guards. _I’m_ the boss. And as long as you’re in Guild territory, I’m _your_ boss too. Which is to say, I’m always your boss.” She was under five feet tall, but her presence was much greater. “Don’t think we don’t know about you. The whole of Skyrim is mine. I have eyes and ears everywhere. You’re Brotherhood. We all know that. And you better watch your step, after what you people did to my worker.”

“Now wait!” A wave of irritation washed over the Dragonborn, quickly followed up by sheer sadness. “I had nothing to do-!”

“BULLSHIT!” said a new voice, and another Bosmer who’d been watching over her drink stood up, slamming her hands on the table and spilling her mead. “I’ve heard all about you! You’re in bed with that Dunmer bitch, that useless piece of shit who abandoned my brother just because he was forced to become a vampire, you didn’t fucking stop that dumbass dog from trying to hunt him down!”

“Hang on-!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the girl screamed. What little conversation had arisen amongst the Guild from Faedryl’s bold introduction ceased. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT KIND OF STATE HE WAS IN WHEN BRYNJOLF FOUND HIM?! THERE WERE MAGGOTS IN HIS SKIN! HIS SPIKES WERE ALL BROKEN! HE WAS IN A COMA!”

Yolskja’s stomach turned. “Oh, gods…”

The Bosmer, who Yolskja now realized was Spikes’ adoptive sister Juno, snarled. “DON’T ACT LIKE YOU CARE NOW!! HE’S NOT EVEN HERE TO HEAR YOUR FALSE PITY! SAVE YOUR BREATH, BITCH!”

“No...listen, it’s not all of us,” Yolskja pleaded. “Babette and I, we’re still on his side...I calmed down Hekatah...Babette stopped Arnbjorn...we couldn’t get to Krogan fast enough, but we don’t agree with him…”

“LIAR!!” Juno felt silent, trembling. Yolskja looked at her, feeling a stinging in her nose. 

“Please believe me,” she begged. 

Juno threw what remained in her tankard at Yolskja. “FUCK YOU!”

Faedryl shushed Juno, drew closer, and pulled an arrow from her quiver that she jabbed under Yolskja’s chin. “What’re you doing here anyway, assassin? What could possibly lead you to the dumbass choice of showing up here after what you people did to my thief? Do you think I’d let you see him? You couldn’t get past me if you tried.”

“I wanted to talk to Delvin,” said the Nord. 

She jammed the arrow further, drawing more blood. Yolskja couldn’t help but notice the way the muscles of her exposed arms rippled. “Why?”

“I don’t think you want to keep that thing in my skin.”

“You trying to say you think you could take me?”

“I killed Alduin, Faedryl. I doubt you’ll be as much of a threat.”

“You were fated to kill him. I don’t think you have the same destiny with me. You aren’t _that_ special. Now answer my question.”

“I want to discuss repairs. For an abandoned Sanctuary in Dawnstar.”

Faedryl arched her eyebrows, lowered her shaft, and licked the dripping red from the tip, all without breaking eye contact even slightly. “You’re a bold bitch, aren’t you?”

“I could say the same to you, threatening the Dragonborn with a simple arrow.”

“And yet you didn’t stop me,” the Guildmaster flashed sharp fangs at her cockily. “Delvin’s over there. Remember, though, if you step outta line in my turf…”

The Nord behind her, though he had a gentle countenance, drew his finger across his throat threateningly. Yolskja sneered at him and then followed Faedryl’s outstretched hand towards an older Breton that had been observing the whole thing unconcerned. She took a seat across the table, and folded her hands in her lap. For a moment, the various men and mer scattered about the Flagon continued staring, and then they returned to their drinks, and a soft murmur bubbled up around Yolskja and Delvin. 

“So,” he said. “You’re what’s left of that lot, huh?” 

“Not quite. There’s a few others, you know that. They’re not here for...obvious reasons.”

“Yeah...I can guess at why,” there was a hint of harshness in his low voice.

“We’ve had trouble putting ourselves back together- emotionally- since we lost Astrid.”

“I knew Astrid quite well. It’s a damn shame to hear what happened to her.”

“You’re tracking on why Hekatah and Arnbjorn reacted the way they did,” the reply was an irresponsible one, but nonetheless she felt it necessary. 

“Arnbjorn...that’s her husband, ain’t it?” Delvin chuckled. “So if you’re puttin’ those two names together specifically, that means the little Dark Elf Spikes used to know had a thing for Astrid, eh? Can’t say I blame her. Astrid was a lovely woman.”

“What can you do about the Dawnstar Sanctuary?”

Delvin rested his chin in his palm. “Not much without payment, that’s for damn sure. What’re you looking for?”

“Well, we’re gonna need some traps removed, walls repaired...some decorum..general fixes, you know. And probably a new alchemy station and arcane enchanter…”

“That’s lookin’ at quite a lot of coin, lass. Especially considering what your little girlfriend put us through.”

“I can pay. Dragon bones and scales sell for a fair amount. And...thinking of it, a torture chamber could be useful...Arnbjorn might like a master bedroom…”

“Torture chamber, huh? You’re all the same as ever...look, Yolskja, that’s comin’ up about nineteen thousand. Can you really afford all that?”

“Delvin, I want you to take a moment and think about who I am. Of course I can afford all of it.”

He shook his head. “You’re the same breed as our Guildmaster. No wonder you two clash. Fine. I’ll get some men on it. I’m sure you’ll have to kill them after it’s all set up, but...for someone of your position, I doubt that’s a bother.”

“Not in the slightest.” Yolskja smiled. 

“Consider it done, then. As soon as I receive your payment. Good luck in your, um, murders.”

“I’ll have it sent shortly. Thanks.” She stood up, and then paused. “And...uh, if you...happen to see Spikes-In-Shadows again...can you tell him Babette and I miss him? And that we’re sorry we couldn’t stick up for him more?”

“Yeah, I can do that…and I apologize for his sister’s behaviour.”

“Thanks. And it’s fine. I’d be angry too...”

She pushed her chair in and began her way back out, passing Faedryl, whose vain leer was so infuriating, but yet so suiting, and impulsively blew her a kiss. The Bosmer responded with a rude gesture and ran her tongue over her pointed canine teeth with a grin. 

Yolskja ignored that, and the way it made her feel, and instead wandered through the winding Ratway until she finally reached the canal, and sighed. Secretly, she had hoped to run into Spikes, and finally reconcile with him. She loved her Family, all of them, even if Spikes had been rejected by most of the survivors. But now it was beginning to sink in that what Arnbjorn and Krogan and Hekatah had done had irreparable consequences. If she wanted to make up with him, she might have to abandon them, and if she stayed with them, she might never get to speak with him. 

If only the Sanctuary had never been attacked...no, if only he’d never become a vampire- been forced to become a vampire, that is...if only things would go back to how they had been...but that wasn’t possible, was it? Time only moved in one way, and what was done was done. She had to cling to what she had left. There was no other option. There never would be.


	34. Thirty-Four

The last time Babette had visited Dragon Bridge, her youthful appearance would have drawn unwanted attention. This time, she was settling back into her normal role, the innocent kid, orphaned by misfortune, and seeking a warm bed and a hearty breakfast. 

Dramatics were so very fun. She loved playing the part of a lost and desperate kid, and she loved getting into character. And she loved the violence that fueled her theatrical performances. 

A roving band of outlaws would provide her with her setup. She had been following them for hours now, hiding from their sight and the sun, and waiting for an opportunity. 

She had to feed, too, as she didn’t know how long it would take to gain the innkeeper’s trust, and drinking from the residents might prove foolhardy. But namely, her intention was to use the bandits to create the appearance of a young girl that had just escaped a near-death experience.

When the rays of daylight began to fade, and she could reach from the shadows without her skin fizzling, she struck. The closest bandit had only a moment to react, and yet the look in his eyes before she latched onto his neck was not one of fear. 

“What in Oblivion?!” shouted a marauder as the bandit fell. “That’s a- that’s a child!”

“No!” cried another, “it’s a vampire!” 

Babette pulled her fangs from her victim’s throat and hissed. An archer amongst their ranks nocked an arrow, but he had no time to fire before Babette jumped him, and he too found her teeth in his veins. 

She was unable to fully drain the archer’s corpse before the marauder tried to bring down a greatsword on her, and she grabbed his wrist, tossing him aside with the same incredible strength that she had used to hold down Arnbjorn months ago and moving on to the one who had declared her a vampire. Vampiric Drain hummed at her extended palm and sapped that one’s health away, and then she turned to finish off the marauder. 

Their carcasses gave her the fill she so desperately needed. When she pulled away from the last one, every highwayman lay pale and gaunt, almost skeletal with their veins deflated, flesh wan as the blood that gave them colour was taken in its entirety. 

She took a breath and wiped her mouth. “Thanks for the meal!”

Satiated, she moved onto the second phase of her plan. A dying campfire twinkled in the twilight, and with care not to burn herself too badly, she scraped some of its ashes into her hand and smeared them over her face and dress. Her fingertips were seared rather painfully by the dwindling flames and hot coals, and she winced, but the temporary discomfort would subside shortly, and the blisters would be a convincing addition to her story. 

Her gown, too, was burnt by the soot, and the small holes left in the red fabric was a nice touch. Now she just needed to rough herself up a little bit. 

One bandit had carried a dagger that she had noticed hours ago, when noon was still thrusting heat down on her and she cowered from her weakness in the woods. He no longer needed it. 

She took the shoddy weapon, which was simple iron, and scraped her knees with its edge, gashed her cheek, and then ripped her garment further. Over her three centuries of life, she had seen many battles, and many fights even amongst the Brotherhood itself, and through those many many conflicts, the natural form of injuries and the way that clothes tore under duress had become second nature to her, or perhaps even instinct at this point. Even the most skilled of healers would not have been able to tell the difference between Babette’s self-inflicted wounds and wounds gained in actual combat.

The pangs quickly subsided, and even as she waited for the cuts and burns to stop smarting, she began walking towards Dragon Bridge. Perhaps she was mad, but she had done this routine many times before, ailed herself with many afflictions of various kinds to gain the sympathy of unwary, kindly strangers who, quite often, did not live to regret their naivety. But could it really be considered naivety? In Skyrim, orphans were common, and many a hapless family had found themselves besieged and murdered. Taking in a homeless urchin with battle scars and a blank stare was hardly a crime…

She made sure to exaggerate her limp as she staggered into the village. “Help me! Somebody, please!”

The first person to stop was a guard, which was expected. When they did their jobs properly, it was usually them who first interacted with her. 

“By the gods!” he exclaimed. “What happened to you, girl?”

Hiding her wicked glee behind a facade of crocodile tears, Babette sniffled, “Bad men attacked me and my family! They killed Ma and Pa, and they hurt me! I ran away, but I’m so tired and scared…”

“Gods,” he said again, Nordic accent thick. “You poor thing...let me take you to the inn. Faida can patch you up and give you a warm meal.”

He scooped her up like one would an actual child, and carried her to the Four Shields Tavern on the western side of town. It was mostly empty, save for a teenaged Breton and a Nord barmaid, who both dropped what they were doing when they saw what appeared to be a battered, crying little girl. 

“Divines save us, man, what is this?!” the innkeeper bustled over. “Oh, you poor thing…sit her down at the table...Julienne, see if you can find the first aid…”

The guard complied, and ruffled Babette’s hair. “Faida will take care of you. I’ll see about getting a scout to find those bandits.”

“Thank you, mister…”

He left, and the teenage Breton knelt in front of Babette with a small box of basic first aid. “This might sting a bit, but I need you to be good and hold still, alright?”

Babette sniffed and nodded, and the young lady began to clean and wrap the nicks and boils she had given herself. The procedure hardly bothered her, but she was sure to flinch and whimper. 

“Shh, it’s okay. Miss Faida...what should we do? The only orphanage is in Riften…”

“She can stay here. I don’t get many visitors these days ’cept soldiers, so I don’t mind taking care of a littlun for a while,” said the innkeeper, and Babette resisted the urge to grin. “Let me get you som’in to eat. What I got here ain’t exactly a Jarl’s meal, but it’ll fill you up.”

The Breton stood up. “I might still have some of my old dresses from when I was your age. If not, my little brother is about your height. Do you mind wearing a boy’s clothes?”

“I guess not...but can I keep this dress too? I don’t have anything else from Ma and Pa with me…” 

“Of course, dear.” The Breton squeezed her hand, and then disappeared out the door as the Nord brought over a steaming bowl of soup.

“I’m not hungry,” Babette protested. 

“I know. I wouldn’t be either after what happened to you. But you have to eat. I know your parents would want you to stay healthy.”

Wordlessly, the unchild nodded, and slowly began to eat. The food meant nothing to her- she was, after all, actually undead. But it was pretty well-made, and slowly, she finished the meal as Faida watched quietly. 

“See? Don’t you feel a little bit better?”

“I guess…”

“We’ll take care of you. You can use the big bedroom. How does that sound?”

“Good…”

“Once Julienne gets back, you should go to bed. Okay?”

Faida then returned to her counter, and while she kept a careful eye on her new charge, did not converse further. A few minutes passed before Julienne returned, holding a rather old, but still sturdy, blue nightgown. 

“Look,” she said, “I found you some cute, warm clothes! Do you want to go ahead and put them on?”

“Yeah...Miss Faida said I should go to bed too…”

“That sounds like a good idea. I work here, so I’ll see you in the morning. If you need anything, you can talk to Miss Faida. She’s nice. She’ll take care of you.”

Babette mumbled a thanks of some kind, and went into the room Faida had said she could borrow. Clad in more comfortable clothes, she climbed into the bed, which was a lot larger than she was used to, and feigned sleep. 

Faida periodically checked in on her, but as she became convinced Babette was asleep, she turned her attention back to the bar. 

Even through the closed door, Babette could hear everything. Late at night, a third person, who walked with heavier footsteps than Faida or Julienne, entered the tavern. 

“Faida.”

“Gaius…”

“The guards said there was a child.”

“Yes. She’s sleeping in that room over there. Keep your voice down. She’s been through a lot. Her parents were killed by bandits that cut her up pretty nastily. It looked like they might have had a battlemage in their ranks.”

“An orphan, huh…”

“You’re birds of a feather, aintcha?”

“I guess. I mean...our job is dangerous. Father knew he might be killed taking on that lot…” Gaius sighed. “I used to say that he worried too much, but now I wonder if I don’t worry enough.”

“Nobody could have predicted that things would go so badly. Assassins ain’t usually known for bein’ warrior types.”

“Faida, I’m concerned about you. When they- when they retrieved my father’s body...there weren’t any bodies of the actual assassins. None. And we know the Brotherhood is still out there. I got word from Falkreath...the Agents stationed outside the Sanctuary remains have vanished. There was blood in the grass, but no bodies. They’re after us. And they want revenge.” He drew a deep breath. “Our office was broken into. Our financial records have gone missing. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I think they’re trying to figure out who we hired to kill their leader. People we’ve worked with are turning up missing or dead. The Jarl of Falkreath hasn’t been found. Neither have the two retired soldiers in Dawnstar. The Markarth steward’s corpse was discovered in bed- there was a Forsworn axe on his chest, but that seems too obvious. I’m afraid…”

“You think they’re going to kill me next.”

“My father gave you a lot of money for a reason, Faida. I love you, but you can’t stay here. Our relationship is dangerous for you.”

“I’m not going into hiding, Gaius. I survived the dragons. I’m a true Nord. I don’t care what those filthy murderers want from me. I won’t let them scare me.”

“Faida…”

“It wouldn’t be living! A new name, a new home, praying that nobody recognizes me- what kind of life would that be?!”

“You’re nothing if not strong-willed, my love.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me. That person you hired to do the job is the one they want.”

“I sent someone to warn them earlier. We can’t give them guards, of course. But they’re somewhere they should be protected. You, on the other hand…”

“I have you. Ain’t that enough?”

“I hope so...”


	35. Thirty-Five

Ultimately, Babette did not kill Faida. She would have had the opportunity, once Gaius left and Faida was alone. But she refrained. She was smarter than that. No, she resisted the urge, lay there silently fuming, but she would not draw such attention to herself, it would not look good for her if the night a strange child appeared, Faida was found dead with holes in her neck. 

As frustrating as it was to pretend she was a kid without a reward in sight, she continued the ploy for several days, befriending the brother of the Breton, endearing herself to all the adults, and then one night, as quickly and suddenly as she had entered their lives, she disappeared. They would panic, she knew. Faida had discussed adopting her with Maro on the late evenings she thought Babette was in bed. 

She felt bad about the little boy, who had to have been lonely all the way out in the middle of nowhere with no other children around. She did like kids, wanted to protect them, harm the people who would prey on them. But she would be lying if she said she didn’t get some sadistic pleasure from the idea of everyone else frantically searching for that poor orphaned girl they had grown so fond of in such a short amount of time. 

The fact that Faida was not the spy, though...that wounded Babette’s pride, and it also concerned her greatly. 

Most of the Brotherhood had little connections outside of the cult and other underground communities. Yolskja, of course, had an extensive network due to her Dragonborn status. Spikes had been thrust into the world of vampirism, but other than that, mostly associated with the Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood. Krogan had no relations besides Idgrod and the Forsworn. Astrid had befriended Delvin, but she, too, had remained in secrecy. 

Poor Hekatah, though, she was cut from a different cloth, and despite herself, she was friends with people who were not tied to the Dark Brotherhood. And now, it was wholly possible that one of those friends had unwittingly betrayed her, and she would have to choose between her love for Astrid and her love for Paloine. 

Babette dreaded returning home with the news, but she had been gone for quite some time, and needed to just get it over with. 

A knot formed in her stomach, and there was a tension in her neck like there always was when she was stressed out. How would she break it to Hekatah? There was always the chance that there was another, that she had collected the wrong information...but how likely was that? 

And further...how would this revelation affect Arnbjorn? The letter Hekatah had received said that Paloine was living in Whiterun, probably in Jorrvaskr. Arnbjorn despised the Companions, and yet simultaneously seemed to fear encountering them. Was it because he had been expelled? Or was there something else to it, something that only Astrid had known about his past?

And- Sithis, the impact this may have on Hekatah’s friendship with him...would he understand her reservation about killing Paloine? Or would he let his hate overpower him and disregard the Dunmer’s heartache?

Babette felt her hands begin to tremble as she stood outside the cottage, where she knew everyone was waiting for her in earnest, and then she entered, inhaled shakily, and told them, “it wasn’t Faida.”

A hush fell over the survivors. Nobody looked at her directly, but their attention turned to Hekatah.

“Then…” Yolskja’s voice quivered after a moment, and Hekatah burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” said the Dark Elf, furiously trying to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know- I know this means...even if it’s not her...even if somehow it’s someone else...and I will...but I’m…”

She broke down entirely, keening like a lost spirit. Yolskja hugged her, held her close, and let her cry into her shoulder, running a hand through her hair and down her back. 

Babette snuck a peak at Arnbjorn out of the corner of her vision. He seemed uncomfortable. Was it because of the crying Elf, or because he knew he now had to return to Whiterun?

None of the assassins spoke until Hekatah’s violent sobbing quieted into soft hiccups, and she raised her puffy, reddened face from Yolskja’s arms. 

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I...please let me go with you, Arnbjorn…I know...you’re gonna...wanna go...but please let me come. I...I want to see her again. Even if...”

“I thought you’d probably ask,” he muttered. His gaze was fixed firmly on the table. “I guess I can’t really...stop you. I mean...considering where she is...I might need someone with me...just don’t fuck things up. We have to kill her, either way.”

Another bout of silence smothered the room. Months of work, months of struggling, it had all led up to this. And despite what had been said multiple times by multiple people, they all knew the truth, and had for quite some time. Paloine was the spy, and Paloine was going to pay for it. 

“I’m...gonna go to bed…” Hekatah mumbled. “We’ll go...tomorrow morning, I guess…”

She didn’t even change into pajamas, just flopped down under her covers and closed her eyes. Yolskja followed her, laying down beside her and embracing her until she fell asleep, and then rejoining the others. 

“I still think it was Spikes,” grumbled Krogan under his breath. Yolskja leaned over and smacked him. “Ow! What was that for?!”

“You know!” she retorted, glowering. “You’re such an ass.”

Wordlessly, Arnbjorn stood and began pacing back and forth around the small kitchen. His face was expressionless, but he seemed to shudder every so often, and his hands twitched and grabbed at nothing.

“So what _was_ Faida paid for?” Yolskja tore her stare from the odd behaviour of the werewolf. __

_ _“She’s in a relationship with Gaius Maro, like I thought. The Commander sent her a lot of money because Gaius is afraid for her life and wanted her to set up somewhere with a false identity. I actually didn’t kill her, since I never revealed I wasn’t actually a kid. We might be able to use her later, if we ever have any more trouble with the Oculatus.” Babette cleared her throat. “And we might, Gaius Maro suspects our involvement in the disappearances of everyone we killed from the list. I thought he might notice the records being gone, but he’s sharper than I anticipated.”_ _

_ _“Oh, gods...that’s gonna be a pain in the ass later, huh?” Yolskja buried her head in her palms. “What a mess. We’re gonna be cleaning up after all this for a long time.”_ _

_ _Nobody responded, and none of them even looked at each other, instead focusing on various mundane aspects of the room that had no interesting features that should have drawn regard. _ _

_ _“I’m going outside.” Arnbjorn finally spoke, giving only three words, and then stalked out the door and shut it roughly behind him. Babette and Yolskja exchanged a worried glance._ _

_ _“Krogan...go check on him, please,” mumbled the vampire. _ _

_ _Krogan grunted, and he trailed after the lycanthrope, leaving just Babette and Yolskja and a despondent Hekatah._ _


	36. Thirty-Six

When Krogan caught up to Arnbjorn, the other man was already outside the bounds of Morthal, barefoot and not cloaked or otherwise properly covered for the harsh wintery landscape, but seemingly unbothered by the snapping of frost at his hands and feet. His shoulders were stooped, head lowered, and his long silvery hair that he usually kept well-brushed was blowing wildly in the midnight winds. He walked quickly, briskly, and Krogan knew he probably heard the Orc coming and was trying to outpace him. 

Krogan refused to let him get away like that. He broke into a jog until he finally came up alongside Arnbjorn, and then slowed to match his speed.

“What do you want?” growled the Nord. “If this is about the Companions…”

“Babette told me to check on you.”

Arnbjorn sighed heavily. “Should’ve figured…”

“Well?”

“I’m fine. Just thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do.”

“I’m surprised you’re okay with Hekatah joining you.”

“Are you?” Arnbjorn shrugged, and then sighed again. “I- I wasn’t going to, I guess. But I thought about what you said in Morrowind...and I guess it’s only fair that she exacts revenge too...since she was the only other survivor…I dunno. I don’t think it matters which one of us does it, really...I mean, Astrid was _my_ wife. But Paloine is Hekatah’s friend. So...she’s hurtin’ too. She’s tried to be good to me, at least after we stopped fighting. So I’m tryin’ to be nicer to her too. And everyone else…”

“She cares about you a lot,” Krogan noted. “I dunno if she woulda made it if you’d died back there, honestly. I think her will to live might’ve just...given out.”

“Ah.” The noise wasn’t dismissive, but confused, and a little bit concerned. “She...would have died? I mean...I thought about that, but I didn’t think she really would...”

Oops. Krogan chose to change the subject. Hekatah wouldn’t be happy with him if he accidentally revealed that she loved Arnbjorn directly to his face. “What are you doin’ out here?”

“I dunno. I- my uncle lives in Jorrvaskr. Paloine- her husband was a Companion. She’s gotta be living there, and my uncle is there. If things go south…well, I’ll kill him.”

“It doesn’t matter. The Dark Brotherhood is your Family. You’ve said so a hundred times.” 

“Yeah...I know…gods,” Arnbjorn clenched his fist. “I hope I get to kill him. I hope it makes Eorlund hurt.”

He didn’t elaborate further than that. Krogan didn’t ask him to. 

“Why’d you come all the way out here, anyway?” the Orc repeated his question. 

“Not sure. I guess it’s the wolf blood...I just needed to go for a walk or somethin’. I never sleep well. It’s been worse since...since Astrid died- was killed.” He shook his head, and held out a palm to catch the flurries that had begun to fall. “Snow. I don’t mind, but aren’t you cold?”

“Nah. You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

“I was when you first showed up. I guess I don’t mind if you stay, though…”

Krogan nodded. “Then I will. But we shouldn’t stay out here for too long. Not if you want to leave early.”

“I can’t believe…”

“Hm?”

“I can’t believe this is it. It feels like it’s been years…” Arnbjorn touched the spot on his cheek where slowly, the scar was fading and his beard was returning, and then another scar under his eye that was not so healthy. “And finally, I can avenge her...avenge all of them…and move on with my life. Move on with everyone else...we can all move on, I mean.”

There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. It was stifled, but Krogan knew Arnbjorn too well to miss the hint of emotion. 

“We can get back on our feet. Move to Dawnstar...finish our contracts, start finding new ones,” he almost sounded wistful. “Maybe get another big score like a Jarl or some Count in Cyrodiil, that would be somethin’, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah...it sure would…”

Arnbjorn reached for his hip, and pulled the Blade of Woe from its scabbard. “Ya know, before you got here...I was thinkin’...I can’t use this thing. I don’t know how. It’s too small for my hands. D’ya think...Hekatah would like to use it? She’s the only one of us left who really uses daggers and what she’s got right now isn’t really that good...I’ve been desperate for this thing to get some use, but I just can’t wield it the way Astrid did. I want it to be back in action…”

“I think she’d be honoured.”

He sheathed it. “Then I’ll let her borrow it. Maybe I’ll let her do the deed...figure, it’s only right that Astrid’s Blade kills her murderer.”

A comfortable stillness stretched between them as the snow picked up and clouds choked the moons and stars. For a bit longer, they wandered the Hold’s forests aimlessly, and then Arnbjorn unexpectedly turned back towards Morthal without saying anything. Krogan followed him closely, fearing that if he didn’t, he may get lost in the dark blizzard.

The house was dark when they entered, save for the smoldering cinders of the firepit that had been put out. Yolskja had also gone to bed while they were out, fast asleep with an arm over Hekatah. Babette was beside the fireplace, hovering over what little light the coals provided, sewing shut the rips in Hekatah’s best black robes. 

“Finally. I was getting worried.” She turned her eyes, bright and orange in the blackness, to them with sternness. “When the weather gets like this, you ought to come back quickly.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Krogan didn’t admit it, but he was frozen. “I’m gonna stay the night here then.”

“You say that like this isn’t your house…” Arnbjorn said slowly. 

“Well, you assholes took over my beds.” Krogan pulled a thick comforter out of a closet in the hall further past the sleeping area and sat down in an armchair. “You gonna just grab the stuff you’ll need in the mornin’?”

“Yeah…” Arnbjorn changed into the nightclothes Hekatah had retrieved for him from Falkreath swiftly and climbed under his blankets. “We shouldn’t be gone for that long. We’ll just break in, double check, and kill her.”

“We’ll leave for Dawnstar together as soon as you’re back,” called Babette from the other room. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Arnbjorn’s reply was muffled by his pillows. 

“Oh, one more thing,” she added. “Was Yolskja able to secure the repairs?”

It was easy to tell that Arnbjorn was already drifting off. “Mmhm…” 

“Good. Okay. I’ll let you sleep now. Good night…and good luck.”


	37. Thirty-Seven

There was no grand send-off in the morning. Yolskja did not kiss Hekatah or hug Arnbjorn. Krogan never spoke, even stonier than normal. Babette placed powerful potions in the travellers’ hands, but there was no twinkle in her stare or smile on her face. Rather, there was an air of grim acceptance, that what was beginning now was a necessary path, and one that was painful as much as it was healing. 

There was a lot that could have been said. None of it, however, was uttered into existence. Perhaps all of it had been communicated subconsciously already. 

Not even the phrase “good-bye” was exchanged. Arnbjorn simply raised a palm in farewell, and left in solemn silence with Hekatah at his heels, and her only adieu was a sad look over her shoulder and a short pause, and if they didn’t know better, the members left behind might have thought she didn’t intend to return. 

She and Arnbjorn did not talk to each other, either, as they began their journey. That was not unusual; she was a people-watching type, and once they had settled their differences, she had taken to frequently sitting and just observing him, and he would carry on with whatever he was doing and work around her. He was a stoic person, and content to let her do so as he smithed or practiced with his axe. Their lack of conversation should have been normal. 

What was unusual was the atmosphere of tension between them, like they needed to say something to each other, explain something, but wouldn’t, or couldn’t. They were both individuals who were comfortable with quietness, and the feeling that somehow, that had changed was unsettling. 

Arnbjorn seemed not to care about his surroundings. Hekatah, in contrast, was deeply nervous, jumping to her daggers at every noise, until finally Arnbjorn stopped in his tracks and looked down at her. 

“You don’t need to be so uptight,” were the first words to leave his lips. “I can hear much more than you. If there’s anything coming, I’ll know first.”

She blinked. “Yes, I guess you would...as long as you’re not reaching for your axe, it’s fine.”

“You got it. Put your butter knives away.”

“They’re _daggers_!” Hekatah protested the lighthearted insult, but complied. “Fuckin’ brute.”

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Hekatah’s mouth, and then she lowered her gaze, bright eyes hidden by heavy lids and thick lashes. “It feels wrong to joke around now.”

“We still have several days until we reach Whiterun. Maybe a week, depending on the weather. It doesn’t do either of us any good to just sit around skulking.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “When did you get so smart?”

“Somethin’ Krogan said to me a while back. I think about the stuff he says a lot.” He shrugged. “It isn’t _that smart_. I- hey, wait a moment, is that what you were tryin’ to say? Are you callin’ me dumb?”

Hekatah giggled innocently. “You picked on me first!”

“I guess I did…” he admitted. “Fine, you got me.”

She laughed again, and tautness that had wedged between them was eased, at least a little, and finally they were able to peacefully walk alongside one another without discomfort.

The path they took was adjacent to but not quite on the main roads between Holds. Occasionally, foxes and rabbits or even feral goats ran past them, and Arnbjorn withheld the urge to give chase. 

His drive was later satiated by the foolish bandits that tried to rob them. Hekatah hardly needed to lift her blades before the frostbitten axe Arnbjorn employed had dismembered each thief thoroughly, and left their iced-over body parts for the wild animals to eat. 

“You’re usually the fast one,” he teased, and then scowled at his nicked weapon. “Damnit...maybe I’ll sneak up to Skyforge and sharpen this old thing...it’ll be like old times.”

Hekatah raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ll explain when we get a little closer to Whiterun. It’ll probably be important if we get caught. C’mon, let’s get goin’ before wolves get the scent of blood…I like those things, don’t wanna have to fight any.” 

Telling the time was difficult, what with the heavily forested geography of much of Skyrim, but after hours of wandering, the light streaming through the canopy became less strong, before beginning to fade out altogether, and Arnbjorn suggested that they stop for the night.

As he set up the tents, a flame danced down Hekatah’s arm to the leaf litter and burned contained like a campfire would. She crouched beside it, staring at it, as if she had not been the one who created it. Every so often, she reached out and touched its climbing blaze, and then went back to hugging her legs against her chest.

Arnbjorn sat down across from her with a salmon steak he had prepared in hand and ate it speechlessly, sometimes looking up at the Dark Elf quite literally playing with fire. There was something ghoulish about the reflection of red and orange in those giant white eyes, but he had grown used to it. It reminded him, in a way that was perhaps sort of nostalgic, and a bit embarrassing, of the early days of having her and Krogan in the Dark Brotherhood. 

Krogan had introduced himself by coldly disparaging every member, and then turned to Hekatah and said, rather loudly, “What is that? Is that a fucking doll?”, and earning himself a snarl from the woman. The only members he neglected to deride were Gabriella, whom he simply could not come up with something for, and Arnbjorn, who was pretty certain the “oh, so we’re both assholes” comment was a compliment. Hekatah, on the other end of the spectrum, had started out politely, but rapidly revealed her own kind of ill-temperedness when met with hostility from Arnbjorn. To put it simply, the biggest reason they had begun to get along nearly two years prior was that they had run out of money to pay Nazir’s fines for fighting. 

“What’re you smirkin’ about?” she asked him, and he realized he was chuckling to himself as he reminisced. 

“Just thinkin’ about back when you and Krogan first showed up, I guess,” he sighed. “That was way different from now, huh? You and me couldn’t keep ourselves in check for more than a day at a time.”

“Yeah…” she rested her chin on her knees. “A-Astrid must’ve been so fed up with us…”

“I think she was more done with Krogan than anything. Since he insisted on treating you like a possessed doll...she didn’t like that much.”

Arnbjorn couldn’t see it in the twilight shadows, but Hekatah’s face grew red at the mention of Astrid caring about her, and she scolded herself internally for becoming flustered at a time like this.

“I wish you could have gotten to know her better, gotten to be friends with her like you are with me,” Arnbjorn carried on, frustratingly clueless. “She liked you a lot. I think she thought you were kinda cute, the way you tried so hard. I- don’t mean that in a weird or condescending way. You’re capable, she knew that. Guess I should’ve paid better attention to her judgement, eh?”

“I- I think I’m gonna go to bed,” Hekatah squeaked after a moment. “G-good night…”

The flare snuffed itself out, and Arnbjorn vaguely made out her form crawling into the tent across from his. He wondered if she was alright, what had made her so unexpectedly tuck in for the night, but shrugged it off, and followed suit.

His dreams were dark. Fleeting visions terrorized him, often incomprehensible in their murky formlessness, but the emotions invoked in him were the same as the day of the Sanctuary raid. He felt like he was floating in space, unable to move or breathe, submerged in nothingness, and surrounded on all sides by vague silhouettes. All he could make out was black and red, splashes of blood, and a white hand brilliant and unnaturally pale against the backdrop of phantasmal screams and amorphous terror. He reached out for it, and a burst of pain exploded in his arm. With horror, he looked down, only to see that it was gushing scarlet, and the hand was his, drained of life. In the back of his mind, he heard his father’s voice yelling, but understood nothing, and then an ear-splitting shriek ripped across the saturnine landscape and he realized it was Astrid’s, but he was unable to call out to her or find her amidst the nebulous chaos, and he jolted awake, breathless, drenched in a cold sweat and morning dew with a throbbing in his wrist as dawn began to break and the vengeance that had once seemed out of his grasp drew ever-closer.


	38. Thirty-Eight

The walls of Whiterun rose in the distance, and a lump formed in Arnbjorn’s throat. He had not been to the capital of the Hold in over a decade, not since he became the disgraced and disowned murderer that he was now. He had refused. Any contracts within the city went to others. He would not take them. But this was above any contract. This, he had to do.

Hekatah’s hand rested on his arm. She was too short to comfortably reach his shoulder, which he realized now was probably what she was attempting, but nonetheless her effort at comfort was partially successful. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said softly, and he noticed that her skin, too, was ashy in the way that it looked when the blood drained from her face. 

“I guess I oughta explain myself now...since we’re going to enter Jorrvaskr.”

“You don’t have to. It doesn’t really matter. I’ll fight beside you no matter what.” A bit of the colour returned to her cheeks. “I-I! I mean...you’re me friend, and we’ve both done horrible things. So I don’t mind if your past means we have to do some more.”

“I said I was going to tell you everything when we got a bit closer. Let’s see...you know the Gray-Manes, right?”

Hekatah’s lip curled. “Yeah, Stormcloak-supportin’ fetchers…none of them like me.”

“_Eorlund_ is my father,” Arnbjorn said his name with hatred. “He works Skyforge, like the Gray-Manes have for generations. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps. My uncle is a Companion. They wanted me to join when I was a lad, so I did. I told you already, I got my beast blood from the Companions.”

“Is this why you hate them so much?”

“Pretty much. They kicked me out. Didn’t like the way I fought. Said I was too brutal and underhanded. Eorlund was furious. He told me I’d ‘disgraced the family legacy’ and disowned me. My name isn’t anywhere in the family records anymore,” he scowled. “The bastard would rather have his damn tradition than his son. So let him have it. I’ll make it worthless.”

Hekatah stared at him, trying to form words, and for a moment she said nothing before finally coming up with, “you’re better off with us. I’m glad- I’m glad things happened the way that they did. I’m glad you met Astrid, and I’m glad I met you.”

“I don’t regret anything that I did. But if we get a chance...I’m _ripping that place apart_.” The sentence was spoken with viciousness and sincerity, with a glowering malevolence etched into his face, and then he relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I know we don’t have time for that. I’ll keep myself in check. I just…”

“It’s okay. Me parents aren’t exactly the greatest either...I mean, I haven’t seen them since I left Morrowind, but...pretty sure me mum wants me dead.”

Arnbjorn acknowledged her response with a ‘hm’ noise. Then, after some time walking in silence, he reached for his belt and removed the Blade of Woe in its scabbard. “Um…”

Hekatah’s bug-eyes got bigger. “What’re you doing?”

“I...my hands are too big to use this thing properly. So it hasn’t gotten any use since...since my wife was killed. Your daggers aren’t very good. So- I wanted to know if you’d like to use this for a bit...give it some action...Krogan said you’d probably want to…”

“A-Are you serious? You...want...you want to give me...let me borrow...A-Astrid’s…” Hekatah turned a wonderful shade of scarlet. 

Arnbjorn blinked. “Are you alright? You don’t have to…”

“No, no, I- I would be honoured…” She pulled one of her weapons off her hip and hid it away in one of her many pouches, and then shakily held her hands out to receive the Blade of Woe. “I won’t let her- or you- down. I’ll use it well.”

“I have no doubt.”

Whiterun grew larger as they got closer. “Jorrvaskr is far away from the main gate. We should go around back. Do you think you can scale the walls?”

“Yeah, I think I can do it…” The sky was becoming a flushed pink, casting rosy highlights down on the travelling pair. “Midnight sound good?”

“Mmhm. If I had to guess at where we’re gonna find our target, I bet she’s staying in one of the unused closets...I haven’t been there since I was a young man, but I remember it like the back of my hand. I wonder if that old maid is still wanderin’ around...if she is, we’ll have to kill her.”

Hekatah shrugged. “Just can’t kill the kid. Krogan will be pissed...we have to work around killing the kid, without giving up our identities.”

“Fine. Won’t kill the brat.”

They were close enough to make out the guards patrolling now. Arnbjorn wavered for a moment, choosing which direction to take, and then lead Hekatah a bit further out into the plains and around the right side of the settlement. 

“There’s no guards near Jorrvaskr,” he noted as they came up on the stone barrier. “The Companions handle their problems themselves- even when it comes to raids and the Silver Hand, they never call on the guards. That means if we’re seen, we don’t have to worry about the guards, or a bounty, but the Circle will come for us.”

He ran his claws through his beard. “I wonder if they’d even know who I am.”

Hekatah noted that he was glistening now, that cold perspiration had formed on his brow, and his complexion was almost pure white. In her heart, which surely was beating too quickly to be healthy, she vowed to do anything it took to support him. 

“I hate to ask this,” he continued. “But I want you to kill her. I want it to be the Blade that takes her life.”

Nausea washed over her, and she doubled, a hand clamped over her mouth and her arm across her stomach. “Oh, Azura, Mephala and Boethiah help me!”

Arnbjorn almost said something, but Hekatah raised a finger to indicate she wanted a moment. 

“I...I would rather it be...me...anyway,” she stammered after she had recovered. “As much as she still means...that makes it all the more personal. I hope that me Blade in her heart hurts as much as her betrayal hurt me.”

A shuddering breath filled her lungs. “I’ll kill her with all me hate and pain, and all yours, and all the pain that our Family felt as they died because of her.”

The werewolf had no answer for that. He understood and appreciated the sentiment, but he was not an especially articulate man and he could not vocalize his reaction. 

So he turned his gaze away from the mer, and instead watched as the stars began to emerge, and Masser and Secunda began their nightly arcs across the sky, radiant and gleaming beneath galactic lights. 

Suitingly, Masser was a murderous red, redder than usual, and the clouds and heavens around it seemed to reflect that scarlet glow. Secunda, too, almost mirrored the malicious glint. The air felt hot and heavy despite the onset of winter, with the ominous weight of tragedy on the evening breeze. In silence, the moons climbed, slowly rolling towards their peaks, and when they had reached their highest point, the assassins bathed in passion and scorn began their terrible deed.


	39. Thirty-Nine

The sensation of someone standing over her woke Paloine. She had grown accustomed to her son hovering at her bedside, unwilling to shake her awake but in need of something or another. 

“Kardir,” she mumbled sleepily, without opening her eyes, “you’re supposed to be at the Temple of Kyne…you won’t get well if you come all the way up here in the middle of the night...”

The voice that replied was one she recognized, but not one that she expected, and it carried an edge to it that Paloine knew from experience meant danger. “Oh, sera, Kardir isn’t here.”

Instantly, Paloine’s veins turned to ice and she sat bolt upright, grabbing her midnight visitor by the collar. “What have you done to my son?!”

“Nothing. I didn’t even know where he was until you said that, actually.” Hekatah Archundael, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, stood in her bedroom, accompanied by an absurdly large man whose features were hidden in shadows. The Dunmer pushed Paloine’s hand aside dismissively, and the warmth that she usually looked upon the Altmer with was all but extinct. “And he’s not who I’m here for. I have no intentions of seeking him out. It’s you that I want. You treacherous bitch.”

Treacherous...was she referring to the fact that Paloine had married a Nord? No, Hekatah’s strong distaste for the men-race living in Skyrim couldn’t possibly be that powerful...

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You wouldn’t,” Hekatah replied with a hint of arrogance. “I’ve hid me true self quite well.”

She lifted her knee and placed her foot on the bed, and swept aside the outer layer of her robes to reveal a dagger at her hip that Paloine knew, the dagger that she had claimed from the dead body of the Dark Brotherhood’s leader and given to Commander Maro as proof of her death. A sensation like static took hold of her limbs. 

“You…”

She grinned way too widely, not the sweet, innocent smile Paloine was used to, but a grin that split her face like a snake about to eat. “Yes. I’m Dark Brotherhood. Now tell me, me lovely Paloine…what did you do with the Penitus Oculatus that you were so secretly hidden away amongst their records, alongside illicit dealings with Jarls and stewards?” 

“I…” Paloine tried to lie, but even though she knew this sealed her fate, she respected her Arch-Mage too much to tell her a falsehood. “I guess this is it. I’m sorry, Hekatah. If I had known...if I knew it would involve you...I just...I wanted to do the right thing...make Skyrim safer for my son...I’m sorry.”

“No apology can save you,” Hekatah growled. Her comrade stepped forward, and she finally was able to make out his features. A Nord man, with scars crossing his face, and an incredible physique. Hekatah was small and not terribly strong...if Paloine was quick, she might have been able to knock Hekatah unconscious and run, take her son and abandon the city. But even if she could take Hekatah, there was no telling what kind of abilities the man had. “You took Astrid from me. You took Astrid from her husband. You got me Family killed. Nazir, Gabriella, Festus, Liz, Veezara...all of them are dead. And it’s your fault.”

“Hekatah. You’re my friend. I would do anything to erase my actions if it meant you weren’t hurt.”

The man bared his teeth, which had the same sharpness to them that Kodlak and Skjor and Aela and the twins’ had. Was he…

“Kill her, Hekatah.” The tone of the order was even more wicked than the Dark Elf’s. “Before her sentiment wears off and she strikes you.”

“Hekatah, please...I have a son...I didn’t know you were involved...I’ll leave Skyrim. I’ll never return...please…”

Hekatah responded by drawing the Blade of Woe. “Nothing you say or do will bring them back. You cannot atone for what you’ve done to me. I have no quarrel with the kid. But you...you I must kill.”

Paloine inhaled deeply. “I see…”

Both women moved at the same time. The Dunmer, however, was faster, fueled by rage and love, and subdued Paloine before she could cast anything. Astrid’s Blade of Woe buried itself deep inside Paloine’s heart, its wielder atop her and mere inches away, and tears dripped from Hekatah’s eyes onto Paloine’s sculpted cheeks. She bent over, white lips next to the Altmer’s ears, soft hair tickling her golden jaw, both hands clutching that evil dagger tightly as the cold agony of death permeated Paloine’s body.

“I was in love with Astrid. She meant everything. I gave up my future for her, and you took her away. I hope this hurts you as much as her death hurt me,” she whispered, so softly that even her associate did not hear. The murmur sounded distant, but it held emotion and pain that made Paloine want to weep, and she did, letting her own tears mingle with the droplets that had fallen onto her skin from Hekatah’s grief.

The darkness began to close in on her, and she knew she had mere seconds left. In a way, she was already dead, but she would not go peacefully. Overflowing with both regret and anger, Paloine put a trembling, weak hand on Hekatah’s waist, and faintly uttered her last words. “I’m...sorry…”

There was a crack of a frosty explosion and Hekatah cried out. In the very moment of Paloine’s passing, an Ice Spike impaled her killer straight through, and the widower she had created didn’t even get to savor her demise as he went to support his mortally wounded accomplice.

“Fuck…” The groan was full of anguish. Blood was seeping from her side, and she made an attempt to melt away the icicle in her flesh with no success. “Oh, gods…oh gods!”

A piercing fear settled into Arnbjorn that overrode any sense of victory. If she was unable to save herself, magical protege that she was...what was he to do? If she died here…Talos, if she died...

“The Blade,” he heard himself speak, but felt that he had no control over what he said. “Take the Blade out of her.”

“Arnbjorn, I- this stupid thing won’t melt!” She was panicking. “I’ll get the Blade later, I- I can’t close the wound if it won’t melt!”

“Take the Blade of Woe.” He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain that, somehow, if she took the Blade of Woe she would live. He’d seen it...seen cuts and bruises vanish like ghosts when Astrid had wielded the Blade.

“Are you insane? I- I’m-!”

“TAKE IT!” he snarled and she recoiled, before reaching out with a quaking, dripping hand and grasping the hilt of Astrid’s weapon. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the stalactite in her flesh dissipated and the gaping hole left behind melded shut, sucking the blood that had leaked out back into her vessels. Relief flooded him. Their triumph was thorough, then.

She turned towards him slowly, shaky breaths wracking her shoulders. The terror of nearly dying would not subside for a while. “It’s...enchanted…? I...thank you…”

Unsteadily, she stood, and wobbled past Arnbjorn to lean against the wall, away from the remains of the traitor. “So...that’s...that’s it, then…”

“Yeah…” He answered with his back to her, staring at the dead Altmer. 

This was the woman who had slain his wife. The woman who had betrayed the Dark Brotherhood. The woman who had the blood of Festus, Veezara, Gabriella, Nazir, Liz and Astrid drenching her very soul. 

She had been so elegant. The word ‘lovely’ Hekatah used to describe her...that was no exaggeration. Briefly, he wondered how someone that splendid and classy, at least when she was alive, could have sunk low enough to gain Astrid’s trust...but then, he recalled, Hekatah had been hand-selected by the late woman, and thought to himself, nevermind. 

It was over now. So swift and sudden, with no grand battle or valiant conquest. Arnbjorn felt almost dazed. Now...she was dead. All their work...and finally, finally, it was over. It didn’t seem real. Was this really the conclusion of their months-long hunt? The punishment that half a dozen people had died to secure? An Altmer with a child, killed in her own bed by a woman she trusted, was that what they had fought for?

“I want to rip her corpse apart.”

“What? Why?”

His fingers spasmed, itching to sink into the carcass and destroy it in its entirety. “I want to ruin any chance they have of burying her properly. I want them to hardly know who she is. The disgrace she left us in...I want to leave her even more dishonoured.”

He raised his claws towards the High Elf, with no intentions of using his axe or any other method but his sheer strength, and Hekatah quietly called out to him.

“Arnbjorn…please don’t…” 

The plea was so heartfelt, so sincere that it stopped his movements entirely. A fleeting ripple of bewilderment washed over him, and then he realized; in the shocked trance surrounding his long-awaited vengeance, he had forgotten wholly that Paloine had been Hekatah’s friend, and despite everything, there remained some softness in the Dunmer’s spirit for the High Elf mage.

He almost lifted his hand again anyway, ignored her wishes, mutilated Paloine until she was unrecognizable, but he couldn’t. It didn’t feel possible from the most literal, physical standpoint. “Fine. I’m sorry. Fine...let’s just go. We’ve done what we came here for...our Family...they’ve all been vindicated...let’s just go.”

But they had waited far too long to flee, and shrouded in his mental fog, Arnbjorn failed to hear the approaching footsteps until it was far too late. The door swung open and Hekatah’s ensuing scream was cut off, and two warriors forced Arnbjorn to the floor with unbridled violence, and he knew without seeing their faces that it was Farkas and Vilkas, and he managed to turn his head to see that Aela the Huntress had Hekatah in a chokehold, and the absolute worst case scenario had come true. 

The Circle, those elite lycanthropes that reached the highest rank in the Companions, the fighters that handled their conflicts swiftly and brutally, had cornered them, caught them in the act, and now, fully intended to kill them.


	40. Forty

“So,” Vilkas’ knee pressed against Arnbjorn’s neck. “You thought you could come back and kill one of ours, huh, Arnbjorn?”

All the former Companion gave in reply was a low rumble, and Vilkas pressed down harder. “Eorlund was right to wipe you from history. Murdering an old maid and a recovering alcoholic? And a woman with a child?”

“Don’t you dare blame him for me kills! I killed all of them!” Hekatah burst out, followed by a gagging noise that Arnbjorn assumed resulted from Aela tightening her hold. 

Sure enough, Aela’s voice responded harshly. “Silence, whelp, or I’ll snap your neck here and now.”

“We should take him before Kodlak,” said Farkas, whose elbow was crushing Arnbjorn’s skull. “Let him decide what to do about Eorlund’s spawn.”

Vilkas grunted. “Fine. What about the Elf?”

“Let Kodlak decide her fate, too. But I’ll break her over my knee if she tries anything.” Aela did something that drew a whimper from the Dunmer.

Arnbjorn tried to raise his head, only for one of the twins to slam his temple against the floor. “Like hell you will…!”

“Vilkas, you go get the old man,” Aela demanded. “Farkas, make sure that traitor stays down.”

The pressure on his neck vanished, but quickly was replaced by the sensation of Farkas’ boot on his back. The twins were slightly younger than him, and not nearly as large, but they’d gotten strong in the years since his leave. 

For the first time in his memory, a legitimate fear for his own life took hold of him. They could not leave with any witnesses alive, but the ferocity with which Farkas pinned him was unexpected, and he knew that at any point a sword could pierce him through. He waited with bated breath for something to happen, praying to the Nine for any opening, no matter how small. But nothing, nothing, no opportunity arose. 

Vilkas returned shortly, and jerked Arnbjorn to his feet by his collar. There was no mercy in his dark eyes, and what recognition he bore towards the invader was marred by loathing. “Farkas and I are gonna drag you to see Kodlak. You’d best cooperate.”

“Or what?” Arnbjorn sneered. Vilkas grabbed his face, sinking his nails into the skin, and roughly turned his head towards Aela, who further tightened her grip on Hekatah.

“I don’t know what the old man is going to want to do with you,” said the younger dog, “but I doubt he’ll care much if we dispose of the Elf.”

Arnbjorn snorted, but the message was clear, and he let himself be dragged out of Paloine’s room to the open main hall of Jorrvaskr. Kodlak stood before him, alongside his uncle, Vignar. The body of the maid and of Vignar’s servant had been removed, though reddish stains marked where they had lain. 

“Arnbjorn,” Kodlak said his name sadly. “I hoped to see you again someday. I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Shut it, old man,” Arnbjorn snapped, and Aela dug her claws into Hekatah’s neck. “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about your honour. At the end of the day, you’re just as much a wild animal as I am. The only difference between us is that you’re too much of an addled coward to admit it.”

Kodlak lowered his gaze, not in submission but in heartbreak. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Unfortunate.”

“I don’t want to play your game. None of you really give a shit about honour or morals. You just want to fight. And you punished me for not hiding it like a milk-drinking cur.”

“That flame in you could have made for a great Companion, Arnbjorn. If you had only a little bit of humanity...perhaps you could have even been Harbinger.”

“You’re wasting your breath, Kodlak,” Vignar’s very presence radiated disdain. There was a similarity between the elderly man and his younger nephew in that kind of powerful essence. “He’s a lost cause. My brother knew that, and you do too. Kill him, and never mention his name again. We won’t even tell Eorlund it was him. We can blame it all on the Elf. After all, Vilkas said she claims it was all her work.”

A tense silence stretched over the mead hall, the only sound coming from the crackling of the fire pit. Then, Hekatah finally spoke, words strained against the strangulation she suffered. 

“Hey,” she said. “I don’t suppose you Nords would know much about the Nerevarine, would you?” 

Aela sank a claw into the skin underneath her prisoner’s chin. “What in Ysgramor’s name are you talking about?!”

“The Nerevarine. She saved Morrowind from Dagoth Ur and the Blight over two centuries ago, and was the beginning stepping stone for Morrowind’s secession from the Empire. She was a mage of untold power, with a signature spell that had a real bite.”

Kodlak looked her over. “Rambling nonsense has no place here, girl. The Nerevarine has long since died.”

“Oh, this is much more serious than rambling nonsense, s’wit. Perhaps if you Nords paid better attention to your neighboring countries, you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in now.” The expression on Hekatah’s face was one Arnbjorn had seen before, ages ago, when they still fought regularly. It was the wide-eyed, wide-smiled look she got when she was about to lose it. In their arguments, it was a look that signified he was about to face serious burn wounds. But with what she was saying, he knew something else was coming, worse than the injuries she had inflicted on him back then. She had a plan up her sleeve... “Oh, yes, muthsera. You’ve made a grave, grave error. I am the lost Telvanni heir, Hekatah Archundael, direct descendent of Archmagister Lileth. You will regret hurting me, because the Nerevarine, Hortator, and Telvanni mistress herself lives inside me.”

The ghost that had terrorized Neloth in Solstheim erupted from thin air, liberating Hekatah from Aela’s grasp. Her playfulness from then was gone, luminescent visage now frighteningly serious, and though she still did not say anything, it could not have been more clear that she was furious as she hovered above the living. 

“What is that?!” Farkas’ grip on Arnbjorn’s arm tightened. Kodlak drew his sword. 

“An ancestor guardian,” the Harbinger said. All eyes were on the phantom. Aela didn’t even bother reclaiming her prize, who knelt on hands and knees rubbing her neck. “Dunmer can summon them in times of peril...if she’s telling the truth, this one is a formidable enemy...we may be stronger than the live one, but this spirit...”

“I can’t believe you really think I’m that weak!” Hekatah rose to her feet, laughing. “I’m not lying, and you’re about to find that out. Let go of Arnbjorn. _I’m_ your problem now!”

There was a moment of stillness, of apprehension, and then an explosion of action. Aela lunged for Hekatah and Hekatah met her with her daggers gleaming and a scorning chuckle, and sparks flew around them as they fought. Lileth swept down and forced the twins to release their captive in order to counter her strangely solid Daedric weapon. Freed, Arnbjorn barrelled towards Kodlak and Vignar. 

“I hope that when Eorlund finds your corpse he dies of grief!” the brute growled with the utmost hate. Vignar had not a moment to react; his skull was split, and he died with a look of horror and disgust seared into his face forever.

Kodlak hastened to confront Arnbjorn as his uncle’s corpse toppled, and as Arnbjorn shifted his stance to clash with the man he once respected, he witnessed Lileth let loose an emerald Fireball that almost looked like it was bubbling. Kodlak, too, was distracted by the bizarre spell. It exploded within feet of Farkas and Vilkas, and then it became apparent the sorcerer’s secret was her poisonous magic. Acidic burns melted their skin and seared holes through their hastily thrown-on armour, and Lileth beamed, taking her pleasure in their pain. 

“Poisonbloom!” Hekatah’s heel connected with Aela’s jaw as she spoke. “Me grandmother’s speciality…! Maybe if you Nords would let magic into your lives, you could’ve countered it...”

“You belittle yourself, aligning with witches,” Kodlak said to Arnbjorn, deflecting his battleaxe deftly. “And I never thought I’d see you fall far enough to slay your own kin.”

“He was not my family!” Arnbjorn scoffed, and an ardent rage ignited within him. “He made that clear!”

Kodlak parried another blow, and another, but they came faster and heavier now, as all of the emotion Arnbjorn had been holding in since the day of his expulsion overflowed, and he showered the leader with both his axehead and his grievances. 

“I was never Eorlund’s son!” he added at the end of a string of oaths and insults, and a strike chipped at Kodlak’s shoulder piece as he stumbled. “I WAS JUST A STEPPING STONE TO TRADITION! HE WAS NEVER MY FAMILY, AND NEITHER WERE YOU, OR VIGNAR, OR ANY OF THE COWARDS AND LIARS IN THIS GODS-DAMNED HALL!”

The final swing connected perfectly, and Kodlak was cleanly decapitated in a single stroke. But Kodlak and Vignar were not Arnbjorn’s only targets, and the remaining twins and huntress were not the only ones in Jorrvaskr. Awakened by the commotion, and clad in their battle gear, the rest of the Companions, three of them, emerged from the living quarters. Arnbjorn almost rounded on them, but something held him back, a sense of fate or destiny, perhaps, or a supernatural force. 

The foundation shook as a roaring Fireball tore across the battleground past where Arnbjorn had almost stepped, exploding just before the newcomers and setting the wooden mead hall ablaze, and any hint of fear that he had felt when he was captured became sheer delight. The flickering orange and gold began to spread, slowly climbing up the walls and across the floors, and his will to fight was revitalized. There was no stopping now. No surrender. Nobody could leave without leaving all of their opponents dead. The last time he had faced such a plight, he had barely escaped with his life. Not this time. This time would be different. 

This time, Jorrvaskr was burning down with him inside it, and by the gods, would he make a spectacle that would be remembered for eras.


	41. Forty-One

As the air became hotter and hotter, Farkas and Vilkas defended themselves from the onslaughts of Lileth’s Poisonbloom, Aela and Hekatah fell apart to catch their breath, and Arnbjorn found himself against a pair of the lesser Companions, and with them his creator.

“Good to see you again, Skjor,” he jeered. “You told me to never lose, right?”

But Skjor did not answer. His gaze was fixed past Arnbjorn, his sword hand trembling. “Aela…”

A howl split the hot air and Arnbjorn’s heart stopped in his chest, for he knew that sound, and he whipped about to see that Aela, in desperation to end her battle against the persistent Elf, had entered her ruddy Beast Form, towering over Hekatah. “Damn it…!”

Hekatah caught his eye. She was bleeding from multiple shallow wounds, and breathing hard with sweat dripping down her face, but there was no trace of fear in her expression as she looked back and forth between him and up at the giant creature. “You protect yourself, Arn. I can take her.”

He almost replied, but a punch striking his jaw with enough power to knock him to the ground forced him to handle his own foes. A Nord woman stomped his ribs, and he heaved upwards to strike her down. She rolled out of his way and raised her fists. 

“Skjor’s told me about you,” she hissed. “How you ever made it to Circle is beyond me. You have no shame or honour befitting that role.”

“How about I show you the skills that earned me the rank of Circle?” he shot back, swatting away the Imperial girl who accompanied her and retrieving his axe just fast enough to bar a kick with its handle. “Better yet, how about I show you what I gained from that rank? Skjor’s the one who made me what I am now, you know…”

He grinned at her, letting his words hang in the air, and trying to goad Skjor into joining the battle. Skjor, however, had other plans, and left the Nord and Imperial to fight Arnbjorn as he ran headlong into Aela’s fight with Hekatah. Arnbjorn almost gave chase, but the Nord and Imperial blocked his path.

Arnbjorn had to give the two girls credit. They did keep him moving, and worked quite well together, almost attacking in unison. But they weren’t nearly on his level, were barely in their twenties with not even half his experience, and the smoke beginning to fill the room served only to cloud their vision and lungs, while he, having lived with Dunmer and Festus, was unbothered. He mocked them, toyed with them, shrugging off what few hits they managed to land and watching Hekatah and Lileth carefully between the blows.

Lileth, too, seemed to be making a mockery of her opponents, but she was growing bored hurling fire and poison, and when Vilkas made a staggering attempt on her with his greatsword, she withdrew from the impaired twins’ reach, and swooped down upon Arnbjorn’s attackers. Neither woman stood a chance, and Arnbjorn knew better than to stick around as Lileth raised her hands to form her Poisonbloom again. He engaged the scarred and blistered brothers, and behind him, he heard the screams of the damned as Lileth’s insane masterpiece claimed yet more victims.

The twins swore at her, cursed to watch their comrades’ horrible fate, but could do nothing to prevent the dissolution of flesh and bone as Arnbjorn’s axe became an extension of himself and he forced both men into defensive maneuvers. They were nothing- less than nothing. Their sense of goodness held them back. Arnbjorn had no such restrictions- they would never sabotage an opponent. But he? He would; he bashed Vilkas’ knee with the hilt of his weapon, and when Vilkas fell forth, Arnbjorn grabbed his face with one hand and smeared blood into his eyes.

He could have killed the other werewolf then and there. But he didn’t. He wanted him to suffer more- he wanted the flaming floor to burn Vilkas’ exposed skin, and the sizzle of his skin as the fire caught up to him was delightful. His moment of sadism would cost him- Farkas did not take kindly to Arnbjorn’s actions, and redoubled his efforts- but Arnbjorn regretted naught. 

Across the hall, from the corner of his eye, he saw Hekatah dancing around Aela and Skjor, surrounding herself with a wall of heat, no thought given to the consequences of feeding the blaze consuming Jorrvaskr. The fire held back Skjor, but Aela’s claws reached for the Elf, tearing her robes as she flitted away. He almost called out for her, for Skjor was right behind her with his sword raised high, but she hit the older man with a side kick that sent him stumbling backwards and darted out of the lycanthrope’s grasp. 

She was fine- though she bled, the Companions bled too, from a thousand slits on their bodies. He watched her as she backed up, took a running leap over Skjor, landed on Aela’s back with her legs wrapped around her body, and to his maker’s horror, she buried her Blade in the werewolf, released her grip, and ripped down Aela’s spine, using her fall to power her deadly attack that opened Aela almost surgically. 

“I know you people hate Elves like me...I hope you like seeing your best warrior killed by one!” He wasn’t sure who she was speaking to, but pride welled up in him briefly, and then he was forced to return to Vilkas and Farkas as they closed in on him, Vilkas’ limp hardly hindering him, toxins spreading through their veins and skin red and raw but will to fight more potent than ever even as they strained against the infection.

He, too, felt more violent than ever, but the framework of Jorrvaskr was beginning to crumble. Townspeople would start arriving soon, and worse, the ceiling was going to cave in. He had to finish things swiftly, and get himself and Hekatah out. 

Horrifically, though, he had underestimated just how much the brothers had grown since their childhood, even with the life-threatening curses cast upon them, and when it finally sank in that Aela had been slaughtered, their hatred became too much for Arnbjorn to fight off. Farkas shoved him against a glowing wall, and Vilkas raised his sword above his head to end the struggle, and Arnbjorn was about to enter his own Beast Form, perhaps unwillingly, when a Firebolt blasted Vilkas away, and Farkas was charged by a smoldering dark blur. 

“Hekatah…!”

She held down the Nord as he clawed at her arms, and cut his throat in one simple movement. His hands thudded to the ground, and she turned towards Arnbjorn, trembling and cloaked in spiritual flames. “Grandmother vanished. I’m running out of Magicka- all I can manage is this now but only for a few more seconds. You’re tired too. Take Skjor- I managed to cut his ankles so he won’t be a problem. He’s after me, but it’ll end faster if you take him. Don’t worry about me. I’ll handle the one I just hit, he’s dying anyway, so just guard my back. If you can’t finish things, that’s fine, I’ll be done in a moment, just hold him off a sec.”

She got up shakily and ran off after Vilkas, who despite his scorched skin, broken leg, and poisoned bloodstream was trying to rise to his feet, and Arnbjorn almost immediately clashed with the pursuing Skjor, whose tendons indeed left a trail of blood behind him as he struggled to stay upright. 

“Out of my way, betrayer! I’ll take care of you later!” The injuries were slowing down his body, but Skjor was still Skjor, and Skjor did not like to give in.

“Why not do it now?” Arnbjorn taunted. “Don’t you want to see what you created?”

“I’ll face you after that Elf lies dead!” Skjor’s sword bounced off the hilt of Arnbjorn’s axe as he tried and failed to force past the younger werewolf.

Arnbjorn pushed back against his attacks. “You care more about Aela than Kodlak? Disgrace. Ha!”

“Oh, I’ll avenge Kodlak too!”

“_**Will you? Will you? Idiot! When you gave me the gift of the moon, you told me to never lose! And...I never do!**_”

What he did next was something nobody, even he himself, expected. His axe opened Skjor’s chest, ripping apart his ribs and baring his organs to the world, and he reached inside the gaping cavity to tear the dying man’s heart out and cast it aside. 

When he dropped the carcass and turned, he found Hekatah behind him, skin no longer alight with cinders and whole body heaving as she panted. “The other one...I boiled his blood. He was already a goner...Poisonbloom is potent, and he’s damn lucky she only grazed him with it or he’d have died on the spot. We have to get out of here. This is gonna fall apart...any second now...I may not have thought things through, lightin’ it up like that...”

“I was just about to say the same- about us needing to leave, I mean. You can run a little bit longer, right?”

She nodded. 

And so they abandoned the burning hall together and escaped into the wilds, running for their lives, the exhilarating wind stinging in their open gashes and whipping at Arnbjorn’s burns, and the shouts of the Whiterun citizens in their ears, and the taste of death on their lips, and they ran until they couldn’t run anymore, and even then, when they stopped, catching their breath, they could still see the light of Jorrvaskr’s destruction brightening the dark heavens, and when they turned back to watch the smoke rise higher and higher, Arnbjorn’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees in awe. A building he once held in such high esteem, illuminating the night with the fuel of his former friends and family...

“I can’t believe it,” he mumbled numbly. “It’s all over. Everything…but it’s not really over, is it? This is just beginning...”

“Gods above…” Hekatah crouched in front of him, delicately touched his cheek, and her fingers came away wet. “You’re crying.”

“Am I? It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah...fine…” Her lower lip quivered, and she did something she had never done before, to him or anyone else in the Brotherhood, and threw her arms around him tightly, burying her head in his shoulder. “I’m so glad…I’m so glad...”

“Ah…” He returned the hug briefly, but a bit awkwardly, and she let go. 

“I- I’m- sorry. Sorry. I should’ve asked...” 

“It’s fine, you just...don’t normally do stuff like that.”

“It’s just that…we just accomplished something huge. We...we can start anew now. We can go to Dawnstar. We can have a home. We’re safe. We’re safe…”

Safe...that wasn’t a word Arnbjorn had associated with himself in a long time. Safe...he liked it. He was _safe_. So was she. Astrid was avenged, and Arnbjorn had conquered his past. He had a future now- one that he had not considered. There was a life ahead of him, and now he could finally reach that life. It was as if his world had been frozen for years, and time had stretched on forever, and only now was it flowing again. 

“Arnbjorn?” Hekatah said his name gently. “How...how do you feel? After what we just did…? Are you happy now?”

“I…” he hesitated, and then answered her with wholeheartedness. “I am...I feel...I feel like I can move on.”


	42. Forty-Two

The moment he saw the door beginning to open, Krogan grabbed it and flung it wide. “You’re back! Fina- what the fuck?!”

Oh, they were back alright. But their condition was in no way what he would have expected. Though they both looked delighted, their postures were bowed, skin crisscrossed with multiple cuts and bruises, some festering a bit, and though Hekatah would never show signs of being in a fire, Arnbjorn had burn wounds on his hands and arms. Most concerning, however, were the claw-shaped abrasions that they bore. Arnbjorn had nail marks scratched into his cheeks, and Hekatah had similar injuries on her neck, like she had been grabbed. 

“What happened?!” 

Babette, Yolskja and Idgrod gathered around, and Yolskja carressed Hekatah’s jaw.

“Why are you so beat up?” she demanded. “Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

Hekatah grinned wearily. “I’ve been a bit low on Magicka. It’s okay. None of them are deep.”

“She used most of what she had in the fight and then healed me some,” Arnbjorn added. “Things went south.”

“But it’s all over. We...we avenged our Family. Paloine is dead.”

“So it _was_ Paloine,” Babette murmured. “I’m sorry, Hekatah.”

“It’s...I’m happier that I avenged Astrid than I am upset that I killed Paloine. I mean...I’m gonna miss her. But...anything. Anything for my Family.”

“Nevermind all that, what the fuck happened?!” Krogan repeated his original question, and Idgrod shunted him aside to clear the doorway.

“At least let them in before you start your inquisition! They need to rest!”

For once, Hekatah looked at her favourably as she entered the house and slumped down in an armchair. “It was incredible. We burned down- I burned down Jorrvaskr.”

A stunned silence. Then, Krogan grabbed Arnbjorn by the shoulders, and Yolskja rushed over to Hekatah, and Babette sighed, and Idgrod clapped her palm over her mouth.

“YOU FUCKING WHAT?!” the Orc roared, shaking Arnbjorn. “WHY DID WE LET YOU TWO GO ALONE?! OF COURSE YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT…!”

“Oh, Hekatah, but what if they come after you two?” Yolskja fussed. Hekatah’s smile broadened. 

“They can’t. We killed them all.”

The Dragonborn paled. “A-All of them?”

“All the ones in Jorrvaskr…everyone...I had to summon Lileth, but...it worked out.” 

Krogan released his friend and rounded on her. “ARE YOU INSANE?! WHAT HAPPENED TO THE PLAN?!”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Arnbjorn argued, drawing Krogan’s attention back to him. “Paloine got their attention right as Hekatah killed her. Aela the Huntress took her captive and the stupid twins dragged me to Kodlak. It all went downhill from there.”

“No witnesses,” said Hekatah.

Arnbjorn nodded. “No witnesses.”

“Wh...who all did you kill…?” Yolskja’s voice was unsteady. 

“Uh...Arnbjorn?” Hekatah looked at him for names. 

He counted off on his fingers. “There were two I didn’t know, a Nord girl and an Imperial girl, younger than Hekatah by a few years. Lileth killed them. Hekatah finished off Farkas and Vilkas after Lileth’s Poisonbloom weakened them. I killed Skjor, Kodlak and Vignar. Hekatah was able to kill Aela. And of course we murdered the servants and Paloine- that was also Hekatah’s doing. I think that’s everyone. The kid wasn’t in the hall, something about him being sick and in the Temple...so that’s it.”

Yolskja relaxed. “Okay, good. So the kid…”

“Krogan said we couldn’t,” Hekatah folded her arms and closed her eyes. “Not that I had plans, but we would’ve worked around him. Anyway, he wasn’t there.”

Idgrod stared at her in horror. “You killed a woman with a son?!”

One blank white eye snapped open and locked onto the young woman, and Arnbjorn flipped out the switchblade he used for whittling. “You really wanna test us on this one?”

Krogan’s hand closed around the back of Arnbjorn’s neck. “Are you threatening my girlfriend?”

“Only if she doesn’t learn her place in this. This is Brotherhood business. I don’t give a shit who I had to kill to avenge my wife and Family, and it’s not hers to judge.” Arnbjorn shut his knife. 

Krogan gripped him harder. “If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t have avenged anyone.”

“Whatever!” Arnbjorn pushed him away with a snort. “You’re missing the important part, all of you! We _succeeded_. Astrid’s killer- the woman who killed our Family- is dead! We can start putting ourselves back together now. We can move on! We...we’ll make my wife proud. Wherever she is now, we’ll make her proud of us.”

Hekatah opened her other eye. “He’s right...we can go to Dawnstar now...we can start doing contracts again…”

“We can build ourselves back up,” Babette added eagerly. “Oh, Sithis, we really are going to make it!”

A slow grin spread across Yolskja’s lips as it truly sank in that a new chapter of life was beginning for her beloved Family. “We’re really gonna be okay…”

She pulled away from Hekatah and put her hands on Krogan’s shoulders. “Krogan! We’ve got to leave for Dawnstar as soon as we can!” 

He sighed, but nodded. Idgrod clasped her hands together. 

“So you’re all going to just leave, then, huh? That’s a shame...I mean, you’re...sort of all monsters, but I was kind of enjoying your company. Even if sometimes some of you were horrid to me,” She drew a deep breath, glaring daggers at Arnbjorn, and then smiled. “Alright. Well, then, before you go, let’s have one last meal together, right?”


	43. Forty-Three

Early in the morning, Idgrod arrived to see off her guests. A thick blanket of snow had fallen overnight, and she wound a scarf around Krogan’s neck, standing on her toes to kiss him. “I guess this is it, then.”

“Don’t worry,” he grunted. “I’ll come see you again soon. Without the entourage…”

“Oh, please do. Joric is ill, or else I would have brought him to say goodbye. He’ll miss you.”

The Orc scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, tell the little scamp I’ll be back as soon as I can, hm?”

“Of course,” Idgrod kissed him again and turned to the others. “And…”

“Thank you,” Yolskja cut her off, and pecked her cheek. “We owe you so much. If you ever have an issue with someone, you know who to contact.”

Idgrod looked away. “I- I don’t think that will be necessary, but- if it is, I’ll let you know.”

“Bandits, too!” Babette flashed her fangs. “I’m sure Shadowmere has cleared out your forests of any riff-raff, but I get hungry sometimes!”

“I...see…”

She withdrew slightly, as if expecting that to be all, and the Brotherhood to leave, but Hekatah grasped her hand. 

“Hey. Um.”

“Y-yes?”

“Thanks. For taking care of us. Me and Arnbjorn, I mean. And letting Yolskja and Babette stay…”

“Yeah...thanks.” Arnbjorn refused to make eye contact. “You really saved us back there…”

Hekatah released Idgrod and wrapped her layers about herself more snugly. “Maybe I’ll come back when Krogan does...and oh, if anyone comes looking for me, from the College, don’t bother telling them where I’ve run off too, please.”

“Of course.” Idgrod gave a small smile. “You ought to head out now. I need to return home and check on Joric. I’ll see you- all of you- later, I hope.”

“Bye,” Krogan kissed her one last time, and then, after everyone had given their farewells, Hekatah led the Family into the wilderness to find Shadowmere and begin the journey to Dawnstar.

Frosty pine needles crunched underfoot. The air was cold, so cold that the world seemed stagnant and soundless, but Arnbjorn could taste the metallic tang of blood on the wintery winds. 

“Shadowmere!” Hekatah clapped her hands twice when she called the creature’s name, and it came barrelling out of the gloom with what almost looked like a grin, skidding to a stop in front of her and nuzzling her cheeks with its velvety nose. Hekatah laughed and embraced it. “Hi! Look who I brought with me!”

Arnbjorn’s heart ached. Astrid had loved this horse more than her own life. He himself couldn’t ride- even something the size of Shadowmere wasn’t meant for his bulkiness. When Astrid had died, he worried about what would become of her treasured animal with nobody to take it. He knew Hekatah had no experience with horseback either, but it seemed that she had befriended it, at least. 

“Hey.” The beast chuffed with pleasure when its glowing red eyes landed on Arnbjorn, and he, too, was greeted with its great big head rubbing against his face. He patted it with a reluctant chuckle. “Alright, big guy. We’re gonna go to Dawnstar now. You’ve been there.”

“I’m gonna put our stuff on its saddle.” Hekatah began clipping their travel bags to the side of the seat. “I dunno how to ride anything but guar, so I’ve been letting it lead the way and do whatever it wants.”

Krogan crinkled his eyes. “That explains why the forest smells like death. It’s been feasting.”

Shadowmere whinnied proudly and pawed at the ground, and showed teeth that were stained a bit too red before tossing its mane. 

“I think it’s ready to go,” said Hekatah as she secured the last satchel and patted its flanks. “Alright. You lead, then.”

It snorted and began plodding away, followed by Hekatah, Yolskja and Babette, and after taking one last look around, Krogan and Arnbjorn began to trail after them. 

“So,” Krogan said quietly, keeping his voice low so their conversation remained private. “What was it like?”

Arnbjorn side-eyed him. “What?”

“Your revenge. Was it what you imagined?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” Arnbjorn murmured, his nails combing through his beard mindlessly. “She wasn’t what I expected. I saw her...and I was confused.”

Krogan pressed further. “Why?”

“She was pretty. Real pretty. I almost wondered how someone who looked like that could’ve gotten into the Brotherhood...but then I thought, I brought Astrid back, and she brought in Hekatah, so I guess it can happen.”

He had no sooner finished his words than Krogan’s hands gripped his neck, this time with aggression, for no apparent reason. 

“Gck- hey…! What the?!” he tried to pry the Orc’s fingers off of him to no avail. “Hey…!”

“Dumbass!” Krogan rebuked him. “You fucking Nord dumbass! WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID?!”

The ruckus halted their fellow travellers entirely, all of whom, including Shadowmere, turned towards the two men. 

“Krogan!” Hekatah’s exclamation was shrill. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Krogan continued choking the werewolf.

“Krogan!”

“This is just something guys do.”

Babette glared at him. “Krogan, explain.”

“Guy talk. Keep walking.”

“Guy talk involves you strangling Arnbjorn?”

“Yes.”

Arnbjorn, tapping Krogan’s arms as if to surrender, shook his head furiously in disagreement. Scowling, Yolskja came over and forced Krogan to release him. The Nord fell backwards into the snow and sat up with a grimace, rubbing his throat.

“Go fuck yourself, Krogan.”

“I had to teach you a lesson. You can’t say stuff like that. People might take it the wrong way.”

Hekatah’s gaze shifted from Krogan to Arnbjorn and back again. “What did he say?”

“What are you, a guard? None of your damn business.”

“Ow...it’s fine, lamb chop, don’t worry about it,” Arnbjorn stood. “We’ll work this out. You guys keep going.”

Hekatah crossed her arms across her chest in a huff. “If you start fighting again, I’m gonna set you on fire.”

“Fine. We won’t fight.”

“Speak for yourself, Orc…fine. As long as he doesn’t grab me again.”

Hekatah nodded with satisfaction and continued following Shadowmere, shortly thereafter accompanied by Yolskja and Babette. Once they were out of earshot, Arnbjorn resumed his feud with Krogan. 

“What was that for?! What do you _mean_, ‘people might take it the wrong way’? I didn’t mean I was _interested_ in the Altmer, she killed my fucking wife! I just expected someone who looked tougher!”

Krogan snarled. “That’s not the part I’m talking about. And if you haven’t figured it out by now, you never will.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Cause you’re an idiot. Let’s go. Just don’t breathe a word of this to Hekatah.”

“Fine, fine. Talos, you’re annoying,” Again, Arnbjorn massaged his neck where Krogan had tried to throttle him. “Well, whatever. We should get a drink soon...I haven’t had good mead in ages…”

“Yeah, the stuff they get in Morthal isn’t great…”

“Maybe even a beer or wine,” carried on Arnbjorn wistfully. “I didn’t try any of that Dunmer stuff Hekatah likes so much, maybe I should give it a chance…”

Krogan scoffed. “It’s probably nasty. Most of the food and drink in Morrowind is disgusting.”

“I didn’t care for the ash yams,” Arnbjorn agreed. “And the Nine know that I’m not eating a grasshopper the size of a child. Maybe I won’t bother with the Dark Elf alcohol...who knows what’s in that?”

“I don’t want to,” Krogan made a face. “Anyway, what do you think is next for us…?”

“It’s gotta be something big...we have to put ourselves back on the map. Maybe we can take credit for the Jorrvaskr burning…”

“Nah, the Oculatus will use that against us. Probably best not to.” Krogan tapped one of his tusks. “Let’s just wait and see what we get in Dawnstar...we’ll go from there. I bet we’re gonna get something good.”


	44. Forty-Four

“Fuck this place,” Krogan said the moment he laid eyes upon the crumbling Dawnstar interior. “Fuck this place.”

“It’s fine,” Yolskja crossed her arms. “We can manage until the repairs. I’ve sent the payment to Riften. It shouldn’t take that long…”

“You kiddin’?” Arnbjorn didn’t sound aggressive, but he did seem exasperated. “It’ll take a month for the payment to even reach Riften, assuming the poor courier doesn’t get robbed. And then it’ll take a month for the workers to get here, and who knows how long it’ll take for them to finish their job?”

“Arnbjorn’s right,” Krogan added, kicking a rock towards Cicero, who stood pathetically against the wall near the Night Mother’s coffin. “And this place sucks! There’s even some kind of filthy creature in here.”

“Oh, Cicero killed that horrid troll!” said the fool. “But he’s not sure how you knew about it…”

Krogan glowered at him. “I could not more blatantly be referring to you.”

“Krogan,” Babette’s voice was low. “Watch your tongue.”

“I do want to clear something up right fast.” Hekatah emerged from the shadows where she had been crouching with her robes wrapped tightly around her. “Cicero, I’ll let you stay. And Krogan and Arnbjorn will respect you. But make no mistake.”

She hesitated, and glanced nervously at the others, and her hand moved towards the Blade of Woe at her hip. “Right now, I’m running this place. Not the Night Mother. We’ve done fine without her, and without you. You’ll be welcomed here, but only as long as you understand that you’re not in charge.”

“But...the Tenets...would you really risk the _punishment_ that would surely come from disobeying the Night Mother’s sacred rules?”

Arnbjorn took a step forward. “You say anything like that again, little man, and _I’ll_ punish _you_ myself.”

“Arnbjorn!” Babette scowled. “What did she just say about respect?”

A deep growl rumbled in Arnbjorn’s throat, but he stood down. Krogan shoved his hands in his pocket, and Yolskja looked them both over disapprovingly. 

“Let’s settle in and talk contracts, huh?” She gestured towards Babette as the assassins began unpacking, and Cicero, with surprising strength, disappeared into the depths of the Sanctuary with the Night Mother. “She and I took care of the miner here in Dawnstar and the Khajiit mage with the caravans, but we still have Lurbuk, Helvard, the pirate Safia, and the Argonian Deekus.”

Krogan slung his bedroll down on the floor violently. “I already claimed Lurbuk months ago. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“It might be suspicious for me to go back to Falkreath so soon.” Hekatah pushed her fingers together. “I’d rather lay low for a while after what Arnbjorn and I...accomplished...anyway. I think it’s best if he stays here, too, right?”

The Orc stared at her out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, that might be best. Especially since those burns of his haven’t quite finished healing yet.”

“I mean, now that we’re not on the move I can probably fix them…”

Arnbjorn waved his hand dismissively. “It’s fine, they’re hardly even noticeable anymore. Don’t waste your magic. But as for the contracts, I’m not particularly hungry...I’ll let some of you stretch your legs some. I’ve had my fill...for now. Maybe save one for me for later, though.”

“Don’t go to Morthal, yet,” Hekatah implored. “Right after we all left...if you show back up again and Lurbuk vanishes…”

“I’ll go to Falkreath, then,” said Krogan. “I just had an idea. I’ll pretend to be coming for the Jarl, and then when he’s not there, because he’s dead, I’ll start asking the housecarl all kinds of security questions until he gets paranoid and attacks. Then I’ll act like I don’t understand what’s going on and kill him in self-defense. It’s Skyrim, that happens all the time. Nobody will think twice of it.”

“He probably knows it’s coming, right?” Yolskja mused. “I mean, the Black Sacrament is an extreme step to take. He has to have really pissed someone off.”

Krogan grinned. “Exactly. So it shouldn’t be hard to shake him to the point he attacks first and then it’s legal to kill him!”

“I guess that’s one way to go about it,” Arnbjorn sat down with a grunt. 

Hekatah’s gaze darted around suspiciously before she knelt on her own matt. Quietly, she revealed her plans for Krogan’s absence. “I’m going to go see me father.”

“Your father?” Arnbjorn was immediately shushed. 

“Not so loud! I don’t trust the clown!” she put her fingers to her lips. “I don’t want him to know I have family here.”

He lowered his voice. “Right, right, but you were just up here…”

“He’s me father, I should go see him whenever I’m free. He doesn’t have to know why I’m up here. He’s not gonna question it too much. You can come too if you want, he’d love to meet you.” 

Krogan gave her another look and she flushed. 

“I’d invite you, but you’re gonna be out and about! I’m sure Dad would love you too!”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Watch yourself, little weirdo.”

“Oh, shut up, you oaf,” Hekatah stuck her tongue out at him. “I can take me friend to meet me father.”

“Yeah, if that’s what you wanna call it,” Krogan scowled. 

Arnbjorn’s brow furrowed. “You two...hey, are any of you others gonna take any contracts?”

Yolskja shook her head from across the room. “I want to oversee the repairs.”

“I’m going to hunt,” said Babette with a wicked grin. “I was all cooped up in Morthal and then we had this long journey. I’m going to go wild.”

“Have fun, then,” Arnbjorn laid back with his hands behind his bed. “What’re we gonna do about that corpse? I don’t like that stupid little man, either.”

Hekatah shrugged and stretched out. “I dunno. We’ll see what comes of it all, I guess...we have time.”

“Yeah...we have time…”


	45. Forty-Five

“So your old man lives in that tower up there?”

“Mmhm. He told me that the locals call it the Tower of the Dawn.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s what I said.” Hekatah walked in front of him, lightly and quickly, with her robes billowing about her. Arnbjorn was relatively certain she was wearing at least six of the things. “He didn’t like that much. He says it used to be- I mean, I know it used to be a temple to the Daedric Prince Vaermina. Her cult was holed up in there...we killed them...but that was years and years ago. Now he’s made it a nice cozy little place. He doesn’t go into the inner temple, but the little entrance place, he lives there.”

“What’s he like? I mean, you’ve talked about him some, but…”

“Um...he really likes tea. He’s fiery. He tries not to be, but it shows when he’s worried about me. He’s probably going to call you his son. It’s a habit of his.” She touched her lower lip thoughtfully. “He’ll like you. He likes everyone I’m friends with. Sometimes he shares too much...about his past, and all. I think he hasn’t been able to tell anyone about it so when he meets someone like me that he can talk to he talks way too much. It’s okay though. He’s the kind of person that you can listen to for hours.”

Arnbjorn studied her without replying, and kept at a polite distance when she knocked on the tower door and entered. 

“Hey, Dad!”

A Dunmer man sitting on the floor reading raised his head. In a way, he resembled Hekatah, almost as if they were blood relatives, but he was far more aged, his long, tangled hair beginning to turn gray and his deep-set red eyes carrying centuries of experience. Still, when he saw her, a loving smile wrinkled his face and he half-jogged over to sweep her into a tight embrace. 

“Welcome home, my daughter. I’m so pleased to see you…” he murmured. He was not much taller than her, definitely quite short for a man of their race, but he radiated a grand kindliness, and when he pulled away, his hands still holding her shoulders, he turned his unjudging gaze to Arnbjorn. “And who’s this young man?”

Arnbjorn glanced at the woman, who nodded encouragingly. “Er, I’m Arnbjorn.”

“You remember how that bandit attacked me? Arnbjorn happened to find me while me brother was tending to me wounds and he tracked down and killed the bastard for us.” Once again, she lied without thinking, smooth as a snake.

“That’s wonderful. Thank you, Arnbjorn. Please, come and sit with me. I’ll put on some tea.” Erandur lead them to his firepit and placed a kettle over the flames. “So, son, tell me about yourself.”

“Well...I’m an adventurer I guess. That’s how I met Hekatah here...I was looking for treasure in Morthal because there’s not many people who go there to explore, and I found Krogan trying to revive her. The bandit who did it left a trail of blood that I was able to follow and so I traced him to a nearby cave and killed him. It’s what anyone would’ve done.”

Erandur nodded sagely. “Those scars on your face look fairly recent. They didn’t…”

“They came from the son of a bitch,” he confirmed. “I got cut up pretty badly myself. I don’t mind, though. He was brought to justice, and I’ve had worse injuries.”

“Thank you for doing that for my daughter. I’m sorry you got so hurt, both of you…”

Arnbjorn shrugged. “I’ve had tons of brushes with death. It’s fine.”

“And Hekatah, what brings you two back to Dawnstar?” The pot began to whistle. “I know you don’t like the cold. I would have thought you would still be in Falkreath...”

A beat of silence followed, and Arnbjorn realized with dawning horror from the expression on her face that Hekatah had forgotten to come up with an alibi. The fool!

“It’s alright, Dad,” she bought time. “I wear multiple robes at once when I’m somewhere cold.”

Erandur poured the tea into three cups and handed her and Arnbjorn one each, a mischievous twinkle in his ruby irises. “I hope those layers are serving you better than they were when Mara brought you to me.”

“Well, I haven’t run into a dragon and died yet.”

“Let’s hope that continues, hmm?” the elder Elf raised his drink to his lips. “Although, the crisis is over now, I suppose. Thanks to the Dragonborn.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me, I’ll stay warm this time. I’ve lived in Skyrim long enough now that I know how to protect myself.”

Arnbjorn snorted, but said nothing, and hesitantly tried the tea Erandur had made. Surprisingly, it suited his taste.

“Anyway,” said Hekatah, “we’re on our way to Winterhold, and Dawnstar is nearby, so I thought we would stop and see you.”

“Ah, of course. College business. Makes sense.” Erandur reached over and patted her shoulder. “You are staying safe, I hope? Things haven’t gotten any better since the last time we spoke…”

“I’m fine. We’re both fine. I mean- we’ve encountered bandits and a few assassins, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Erandur shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t spoken to that boy...I always worry about you when I’m not with you.”

“Dad…” Hekatah flinched, and her right hand clutched her left wrist tightly. “It’s okay. I would’ve become a target for the Dark Brotherhood anyway...I’m sure they know me mum’s Morag Tong…”

“Maybe...but I just wish you hadn’t drawn their attention to you more.”

Ah, if only he knew...the irony was thick and heavy, like Orcish armour. It was true that the Dark Brotherhood had once intended to kill Hekatah, and that several new assassins had been lost to her blades. The contracts were not for the reason she had assumed, but for the murders she had committed, that she was suspected for, but not openly accused of.

“I couldn’t let that poor child become involved with the Brotherhood,” Hekatah protested with surprising genuinity that almost stung a bit. “And that woman at the orphanage was so horrible...I had to kill her.”

“I don’t think you did the wrong thing,” admitted Erandur. “I just worry about you, my dear.”

A shadow of guilt darkened Hekatah’s features. She always looked guilty when it came to her father, and that hit Arnbjorn in a personal way that he didn’t like. 

“I’ll keep her safe.” He blurted out the words unthinkingly. “I mean…”

Erandur turned towards the Nord. “Thank you. I appreciate that, son. If you ever need anything, you’re welcome here.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course,” the elderly priest beamed at him warmly, before beginning to relay some story to Hekatah that Arnbjorn only half-listened to. They talked for hours, and thankfully, light returned to her face as the conversation continued. Arnbjorn did not engage; there was something about Erandur that was both inviting and intimidating, and he did not appreciate feeling intimidated, let alone by some small underfed old man. 

He watched them, mindlessly, until the sun outside began to set, and Erandur stopped his rambling. “Oh! Hekatah...it’s getting dark.”

“It is...I’m sorry to have kept you,” she began to rise, but he cut her off.

“That’s not what I meant. Things are dangerous...didn’t you hear?”

She raised one eyebrow. Arnbjorn felt his heart beat faster despite himself, for he knew what Erandur was about to bring up, and so did she. 

“Jorrvaskr has been destroyed. Most of the Companions have been killed. There were no witnesses, no survivors. The guard has no idea who did it. There’s dangerous forces out there, and travelling at night...I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Jorrvaskr was destroyed?” she repeated his words like she had not yet heard the news. “And they have no idea who might have done it.”

Erandur shook his head, a sadness creeping into his wizened visage. “The place was set on fire. It was made of wood. They never had a chance.”

“Maybe it was the Falmer,” Hekatah muttered darkly. “Look, anyone the Companions might have something against is someone I can get along with. Whoever did that isn’t going to want anything with me- they’re not gonna come after an Elf after killing a bunch of Elf-hating mercs.”

“I’d like you to stay here or at the inn for tonight,” Erandur ignored her violent remarks. “Please.”

Hekatah looked away. “Alright. We can stay here. Right, Arnbjorn?”

“Perhaps we should stay at the inn,” Arnbjorn suggested, with an undertone to his proposal that was clear only to her. “This place is rather cold, and I don’t want you getting ill.”

“We’ll stay at the inn, then.” Hekatah stood up and hugged Erandur. “It was so good to stay and chat with you, Dad. I’ll come back again as soon as I can.”

Erandur nodded. “Farewell, my daughter. If you ever need anything- anything at all- my door is always open. And that goes for you too, Arnbjorn. Any friend of Hekatah’s is a friend of mine. Good night.”


	46. Fourty-Six

“Why can’t we just go home? I didn’t mean it when I suggested the inn...it’s such a waste. I was trying to imply we should just go back to the Sanctuary.”

Hekatah shot Arnbjorn a glare. “Shh! How many times do I have to tell you to lower your voice! And Dad is a worrisome type. He might come check on us just to make sure.”

“Fuck…” Arnbjorn laid out on a bedroll on the floor. “You should at least thank me for letting you take the bed...since you barely had enough gold on you for even one room.”

“I didn’t expect us to have to...well, whatever! You sleep on the floor at home anyway!” 

“The cots are too small.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you decided to become half-giant!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Your father. He’s- you know, not your birth father. How’d that…?”

“Oh, that!” Hekatah traced her lips with her finger. “It was- gods, five years ago now, I think? Around the beginning of the whole dragon thing. I was probably about twenty-two. I was new to Skyrim...I’d just stolen me Ebony Blade...I got lost...I’d run out of food and I wasn’t used to how cold Skyrim could get...a dragon attacked me, and it had ice breath. Dad found me barely alive outside Dawnstar and saved me. And then- well, he had a habit of referring to me as his daughter, so I called him ‘Dad’ as a joke, and it sort of stuck. I mean...Heketh- me real dad- he wasn’t awful. But...he’s weak. If Mum tried to kill me...he’d let her. So I let Erandur take me in. It’s better that way.”

“I don’t like him. He’s too nice. Too invested.”

She bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s weird. Doesn’t it worry you? That he’s so friendly no matter what? And he doesn’t seem bothered by strangers?”

“He’s not naive, if that’s what you mean. He’s just loving.”

“I’ve never seen a father that cared so much.”

“That’s not me fault.”

Arnbjorn paused. “What would he do if he found out that you’re Brotherhood?”

The question seemed to shock Hekatah into silence. She broke eye contact, forlornly staring at her lap for several long moments. It occurred to Arnbjorn that this was a subject she didn’t like to think about, and hot shame washed over him.

“I- sorry. I shouldn’t…”

“It’s okay,” she said tersely. “I don’t know. I don’t know what would happen. But...it’s better than what Mum would do. I was with- I was with Dad when he had to kill his best friends...and...he didn’t want to. Even though they were protecting Vaermina’s artifact...even though they were in the way of what he was trying to do to save Dawnstar...he didn’t move until they tried to kill us...and I had to convince him it was okay to kill them afterwards...so...even though he wouldn’t like it...me mother...she would kill me on sight, for betraying her and her Morag Tong...but Dad...he would at least try to talk. I don’t think he would be able to hurt me.”

“I can’t imagine that. If Eorlund saw me again I bet he’d try to off me. No questions asked.” Arnbjorn turned his head away from her. “Of course, he wasn’t ever very invested in me or my siblings outside of expectin’ me to work Skyforge. So he probably didn’t ever really care. I hope he’s in pain- after what happened to Jorrvaskr and his brother. Then again- it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got the Brotherhood.”

Hekatah slid off the bed and sat down beside him. “It’s okay. I think most of us have some kind of fucked up family...if it helps any...me mother often left me with me grandfather, ’cause she didn’t wanna be bothered raising a kid. So it wouldn’t really hurt her to kill me...I mostly grew up with me father and Grandfather Aryon. I- she sent me away when Grandfather couldn’t take care of me anymore. Instead of raising her kid- she just sent me to Cyrodiil. I didn’t even speak the language. She probably didn’t even see me as a child. Just something that she could toss away if it didn’t grow up how she wanted. I was an accident, you know. She didn’t mean to get pregnant. So...you’re not really alone...in having that kind of parent.”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I don’t suppose any of us would have ended up in this organization if we’d had good childhoods or somewhere else to go.”

“No, probably not…though I bet part of it is just sort of our innate nature too. ’Cause not everyone who gets messed up ends up liking killing. I mean- Mum is an assassin and Grandfather Aryon’s had lots of people killed. So for me it might just be that.” Hekatah fiddled with her robes. “But I mean...to the other point, even if I could go somewhere else, I wouldn’t. I suppose- I could go back to the College. I probably should at some point soon. But...I would never leave, not permanently. I don’t think I’d have it in me.”

There was an awkward pause between them as Arnbjorn fumbled around mentally to find a response, eventually coming up with, “that’s good. I like that.”

The Elf flushed, and the room heated up slightly. “I- I’m glad. Well...I’m gonna get some sleep. Good night.”

She burrowed beneath the sheets and blankets, turning her back to him, and it took barely minutes before her breathing became soft and rhythmic and he could tell she was asleep. Her face was hidden, but she radiated serenity, and for once it seemed the grasp of the Daedra Vaermina had loosened on her. 

He envied her for that. He had not consistently slept well in years, and even less so since Astrid’s death. 

The violent visions and urges that came with lycanthropy didn’t bother him. He was an animal and he accepted that. But the dreams he had- the nightmares about his Family’s deaths, and then more recently nightmares in which Hekatah was betrayed and killed just like Astrid- he had almost stopped sleeping entirely since his body had healed. 

It wasn’t like he needed the sleep. Werewolves could go ages without rest. But he missed it. And more than that- he missed laying in bed with Astrid. That was when he had truly felt at peace. Having not had that comfort in so long...resentment boiled up in him, but what could he do? Maro was dead, Paloine was dead, there was no more vengeance to be had. 

There was always Spikes, he supposed. That scaly coward...Arnbjorn didn’t even wear shoes, but if he could he would turn the stupid lizard into a pair of boots. Why Yolskja and Babette were so willing to let him go- he would never understand that. It wasn’t fair- that of everyone who had been in the Sanctuary that wretched day, Spikes escaped without a scratch, while he and Hekatah had nearly died, and everyone else had suffered horrendous fates. The bastard probably hadn’t even seen the flames- the flames that, even now, were burned into Arnbjorn’s memory as brightly as they had in that moment, the flames that had made Hekatah flinch at her own magic, the flames that, if there had been any truth to the Old Ways, if there had been any god watching over the Brotherhood, should have at least taken Spikes-in-Shadows the way they had taken the rest.

“Damn it all, damn it all,” he muttered to himself, brushing his eyes quickly as if there was someone around who could see him floundering. “Fuck.”

He sat up, feeling suddenly disheveled and pinching the bridge of his nose, and his gaze landed on the Blade of Woe, carefully placed at Hekatah’s bedside, and gleaming in the single, trickling stream of starlight that had forced its way through the curtains. Half-willingly, he reached up for it, and Hekatah rolled over with one eye cracked open. Her hand shot out towards the dagger, and then fell limply to the side of the bed as she realized it was him. 

“Whas’appenin?” she mumbled, clearly not quite awake. He wondered if his movement had startled her. “Is somethin’ goin’ on…?”

“No.”

“Wha’re you doin’ then…?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm-mm. Wha’s wrong?”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

She propped herself up on her elbow and dragged her palm across her face, before immediately collapsing back against her pillows. “Somethin’s wrong. Talk t’me.”

He hesitated. “I’m just...thinking.”

“About Astrid?”

“...Yeah.”

“I miss her so much...I’m sure y’do even more.” 

“It pisses me off. That…we can’t do anything else for her.”

“Whaddya mean…?”

“Paloine is dead. Maro is dead. Jarl Siddgier is dead. Everyone who played a role in us losing her...they’re all dead.”

She opened the one eye more, fighting grogginess. “Tha’doesn’ mean we can’t do anythin’...”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’unno if Nords think about this...but Dunmer...when our loved ones die, they’re not really gone.” 

“You have ancestor ghosts though.” 

“Mm-mm. Not always…” She stretched her hand out and laced her fingers with his. “When me grandmother was killed...her body was dumped in the ocean...there was no cremation...no ancestral tomb...no way to go commune wi’her. It wasn’t till she awoke to protect me that anyone was able to hear her ’n’ even then ’s jus’ me. But...even though he couldn’t talk t’her...Grandfather knew she was still watchin’im...that she still saw him and loved’im...so...even if...Astrid’s not here ’nymore...we can still make her proud….’n’ know tha’she’s watchin’ us...”

“I didn’t...I mean, we respect our dead but I never thought about it that way. Uh...thanks. Thank you.” Arnbjorn felt his nose begin to sting, but this time it was with relief. “I- you should know, Astrid- she talked to me about you. And she liked you a lot. As an assassin and as a person. I guess it was stupid of me to doubt her judgement back then. Hmm?”

Again, the room became warmer as Hekatah buried her face in her pillowcase. 

“’S okay. Tha’s all in the past.” She wriggled further under the covers and squeezed his hand tightly before letting go, beginning to drift off again, and despite himself he melted a little. “It’s gonna be okay. She’ll be proud of us. It’ll be okay.”


	47. Forty-Seven

Krogan had set out almost as soon as Arnbjorn and Hekatah had left, watching them go with a slight scowl. 

“Someone looks grouchy,” said Babette, teasing him lightly as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder. 

He shrugged her off. “Whatever.”

“Jealous, perhaps?”

“They’re just dumbasses.”

“I’m sure you’re much more emotionally intelligent.”

“I am. Anyway, take care. Make sure the others don’t do anything too stupid. Keep an eye on that fucking clown.”

“Yeah, of course. Have a fun contract!”

“Oh, I will.”

With that, he had shifted his bag and begun walking, the snow breaking beneath his boots. Part of him had wanted to stop in Morthal, even though he had just left, and check in on Idgrod...was she doing alright? Had she been questioned about the strangers in her home?

And if he was honest, he missed her. Spending so much time in Morthal as Hekatah and Arnbjorn recovered had made him remember just how much he loved her company, and how much he loved her. 

So, he thought as he stood before the Jarl’s rather meager longhouse, he had to be careful with this one. Any mark on his reputation was a mark on hers, and on her family. If there was any suspicion he was the aggressor...her life would become hell. Careful wasn’t his strong suit, but for her- he could manage. 

His plan hinged on there being no new Jarl yet, but he didn’t think that would be an issue. The political discord in Skyrim was astounding- it always had been. It wasn’t as crazy as Morrowind, or even some Orsimer camps- but it was common and it was intense. 

The Housecarl had to know he was under threat. It had to be something serious to warrant a Dark Brotherhood contract. Yolskja had said he was likely to be paranoid...so it should be easy. Right?

In his mind, he ran over the possible scenarios. He could put enough pressure on the man that he attacked first, absolving Krogan of any actions taken against him. He could just barge right in and kill everyone- if he hid his identity, that could work...and the least likely option, he could sneak in at night and kill the bastard then. No, there was no way he would do that. He thought back to the Markarth infiltration and a shudder ran down his spine. He hated being stealthy, lurking in the shadows like some kind of cave creature. It made him feel like an oversized Falmer. 

If he couldn’t provoke Helvard, he would have to tear up Falkreath. 

Luckily, Krogan was very good at provoking people. He inhaled deeply, shook his head, and opened the creaky wooden door. 

There was no Jarl in the Jarl’s seat. He almost could have praised Malacath. But he held his joy deep inside, and on the surface, furrowed his brow in faux concern. 

“Hey, um…” he turned towards the Housecarl. 

“What?”

“There’s- no...Jarl…”

“Jarl Siddgeir was murdered,” Helvard said coldly. “His uncle will be taking his place once he has recovered from illness.”

Krogan scratched the back of his neck. “Damn...that’s...hm. I was here...”

“Did you need something?”

“Well, it’s not that important, I just wanted to tell the Jarl about some bandits in the area...I mean, I killed them, so it’s fine, but...aren’t you worried?”

Helvard’s hand twitched towards his mace. “About _what_, Orc?”

“Well, you were supposed to protect the Jarl...and someone got past you...and there’s nobody to watch your back, is there?”

“What are you saying?” The words came out as a shaking growl. 

“I mean- basically, you protect the Jarl, but who’s protecting you?”

“What’s that meant to mean? Why would I…” Helvard trailed off, and then horrified realization dawned in his widening eyes. “Oh..._oh_. Guards! Guards! I need assistance!” 

He drew his weapon and attacked first, and Krogan almost let his facade slip, arrogant pleasure rising up inside him, as he blocked the mace with his greatsword. Ice formed on his blade, and then again on his armour when Helvard’s swift movement brought his bludgeon down on Krogan’s shoulder. 

“What are you _doing_?” Krogan exclaimed, staggering backwards. 

“What’s happening? What’s going on?”

A new voice. The steward. The commotion had drawn her from her quarters, and she stared down at the men as they fought.

“Filthy assassin!” snarled Helvard, and Krogan shifted to avoid another fierce strike. 

“I came to speak to the Jarl and he attacked me!” he argued, and Nenya’s orange eyes darted between the two. 

“Helvard!” she cried. “That’s- that’s the Morthal Jarl’s son-in-law!”

“And he’s an _assassin_!” retorted the Housecarl. 

“What made you think that?!”

Again Helvard struck Krogan’s shoulder, and the ice crept towards his skin. “He practically told me!”

“I _asked you_ if you were _safe_ after you told me the _Jarl was fucking murdered_!” Krogan bashed him with the flat side of his sword. He was playing like he didn’t want to kill the man- but he needed to hurry up and finish the job, without confirming Helvard’s fears to Nenya. 

The Altmer ran down the stairs. “Helvard! Stop it!”

Helvard ignored her, and Krogan threw one of his arms in front of his face to stop a critical blow from landing. 

“Helvard!”

When still the Nord did not answer, Krogan heard a familiar sound- the sound of a flaming spell being charged, and again he had to stop himself from smirking. If Nenya got involved, that was two against one, and a reputable name to back him up against the law. 

“This is ridiculous!” the mage continued. “Nothing about this makes sense! Stop it! I don’t want to hurt you!”

Helvard rounded on her, and Krogan saw that his expression had twisted into one of crazed terror, not unlike that of a hare being chased by a fox. “So you’re with him, then!!”

“No! I’m just asking you to calm down and be rational!” Nenya flinched away, but the fire in her hands remained strong, and she blasted him away as he made an attempt to kill her, too. He was thrown against the far wall and hit the floor with a thud, his scaled armour smoldering, but still he got to his feet and redoubled his efforts, forcing Nenya to dodge instead of attack, and as if he were nobly defending Nenya from the mad man’s aggression, Krogan rushed in and raised his blade over his shoulder, and brought it down across Helvard’s chest. Blood spurted forth as the metal cut through leather, skin, flesh and bone, and the Nord didn’t even have time to utter any last words before the life left his body and he toppled. 

Krogan stood over him, panting, and then sheathed his dripping weapon and turned back to Nenya. “Are you alright?”

“I…” She cancelled her spells. 

“His mace was enchanted, did he hit you?”

“No, no, it’s not that- I’m fine, not a scratch.” She shook her head. “It’s just...this was so unexpected. He was such a reasonable man…I don’t know what came over him all of a sudden...what happened?”

Krogan wiped sweat from his brow ridges. “I came to tell the Jarl about some bandits in the Hold I’d killed- in case there were more, or in case they were wanted...I hadn’t heard about Siddgeir’s murder, ’cause I haven’t been in a city in a while.”

Nenya slumped down in a chair. “Go on.”

“I asked him if he was worried, because if the Jarl was murdered, then there might be more coming, and he doesn’t have anyone to defend him. And then he attacked me and called me an assassin.”

“Divines,” she sighed. “I’ve seen a lot, but I never thought I’d see the day Helvard just snapped like that.”

“This is going to cause a mess, huh?”

She waved her hand. “You should leave. I’ll handle everything. Do you need any healing?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry about all this.”

“Couldn’t be helped, I suppose…” Nenya sank her face into her palms, and Krogan left, and when his back was to her, he finally let that evil smile cross his lips.


	48. Forty-Eight

“Have you ever seen the Night Mother? I mean...I know you haven’t seen it in person, but like, drawings or anything?” 

The sudden question startled Arnbjorn, who sat alone in the makeshift kitchen with Hekatah, up until that point completely silently. He stopped eating and looked down at the little Elf who had asked it. “What? Why?”

“I’m curious. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

He peered at her scrutinizingly. “You are a bit of a nerd, aren’t you…?”

“I’m Telvanni. Hoarding knowledge is in the blood. Why do you think I joined the College?” She tossed her bangs out of her face. “I bet it’s horrifying to look at…”

The werewolf pushed his plate away and set down a half-eaten loaf of bread. “Probably. I haven’t seen it, though...I remember it’s supposed to be some kind of mummy...but other than that, I dunno.”

“I’m gonna go look,” Hekatah decided. “As long as Cicero isn’t there...I’m gonna look at it…”

“Suit yourself, I guess,” Arnbjorn sighed. “Just leave me out of it…”

“I’ll be right back.” Hekatah stood, leaving her meal behind, and disappeared into the barely-warm recesses of the Sanctuary. 

Cicero frightened her. He was not large. He was, in fact, smaller than her, which was quite a feat. But there was something about him, and the sharp gleam of the ebony dagger he carried, that she did not like, that she did not feel safe around, even if he was technically her Brother, and in her heart she feared that if they ever came to blows, to genuine blows, she would not survive. 

So as she searched for the Night Mother, she moved as though she was an intruder in her own home, with unease that was akin to the feeling of reaching Cyrodiil as a teenager with no knowledge of Cyrodilic.

Cicero had abandoned the coffin, perhaps asleep, or perhaps meeting with other members. So it stood upright, a column of intimidating steel carved with intricacy, held shut with a small lock that blended perfectly with the rest of the metal. 

Foreboding airs seemed to leak from between the doors, but despite herself Hekatah plucked a lockpick from one of her pouches. The lock clicked almost immediately. 

As the unholy altar began to swing open, a sense of paralysis overtook Hekatah. Her knees locked, and the pick fell from her hand. 

Over the course of her life, Hekatah had seen many corpses. She was raised with death- with assassinations, with the violence between Dunmer and Argonians, between Morrowind and Black Marsh. She had seen great bold reptilians rip Redoran guards apart from the middle. She had seen those incredible marsh-warriors die from horrible Telvanni magic. She had seen beggars starve in the streets in Cyrodiil, wasted away to skeletal proportions. She had slit throats, hacked at necks, broken hearts, even severed heads. But somehow, when it faced her in fullness, the Night Mother was the most revolting body she had ever seen. 

She- or it- was an Elf of some kind, or maybe a Breton. The skin was gray, yet it was the farthest shade from the natural gray of a Dunmer, and it was shrunken against the bones, like a grisly trophy. There was no flesh on its skeleton, just a thin layer like paper stretched across too tightly. It had no hair, and its eyes seemed empty, but the lids were wide open, and its jaw gaped unnaturally, snakelike, as the head rested limply on its shoulder. 

She knew it was looking right at her. She could feel it in the pits of her soul. Every inch of her wanted to run, flee, close the damn sarcophagus and pretend nothing had happened. But she could not move. It was as if she had been glued to the spot. All she could do was stand there, faint with fear, and look into its gory face in silence. 

And then its empty sockets glowed red and it spoke. The ajar mouth did not move, but its words penetrated Hekatah’s mind and burrowed into the marrow of her being. 

_Dear Cicero...you have met dear Cicero...he’s so very loyal...but he will never hear my voice. Despite his pleas...the way he begs...he will never, ever hear me speak. For he...is not the Listener._

The implications became clear immediately, and sickness washed over Hekatah.

_But I do speak. I will speak to you. For you...are the one._

“N-...no…” The words left her lips with difficulty. It couldn’t be! Not her! “I refuse…”

_Yes, you. I give you this task. Journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre._

Her legs buckled. What a cruel horrible fate...the Night Mother those she loved despised, the Night Mother who supposedly led the Family but was nowhere to be found as they struggled...the Night Mother she had no respect for, the Night Mother that Astrid had done perfectly fine without...that Night Mother now wanted her to do its bidding? How could such a thing happen to her? She was far from Listener material...she loathed the Old Ways, loathed the idea that Astrid’s hard work had been wrong, the idea that the Dark Brotherhood pulling off contracts in faraway lands and without the Night Mother, working hard to find its contracts and its clients, was somehow lesser than the Dark Brotherhood that took its orders from a corpse, that did nothing to find contracts and simply had them handed to them. 

Did the Night Mother take her for a fool? For a simpleton? Did it really think she would abandon the ideals she had been indoctrinated into the Brotherhood with? Did it really think she would turn her back on the years and years they had been forced to operate without it?

Perhaps it could hear her thoughts. Perhaps not. Either way, it gave no answer to her many, many demanding inquiries. It spoke once more:

_Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for all these years. “Darkness rises when silence dies”._

...and then it was silent, leaving a deafening ringing in Hekatah’s ears as she slumped to the cold floor, shivering. 

What could she do? Where could she go from there? 

She pressed her palms against the ground, and the sensation of bone-chilling iciness was more real than ever, and pushed herself back up onto her knees, fixing her hair, brushing away the beginnings of tears so that nobody would realize she was at the verge of a breakdown.

And not a moment too soon, either. As she tucked a white lock behind her ear, footsteps echoed from the long, lonely hallways, and Arnbjorn stalked in with Yolskja at his heels. 

“I got curious too,” he explained, and approached the coffin. “Gods. That’s...disgusting.”

He stared at the Night Mother for several moments, as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her horrific features, and Yolskja crossed her arms, looking down at Hekatah. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

Hekatah swallowed hard. “It- that _thing_...it spoke to me. I’m...it said I’m the Listener.”

Arnbjorn closed the coffin heavily and rounded on her. “Excuse me?”

“It spoke to me...in my head, it spoke to me...it...told me Cicero wanted to be Listener, but...I’m the Listener…”

“You’re joking.”

“Does she look like she’s joking, mutt?” Yolskja gently helped Hekatah up. “Look at her, she looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

“A ghost would be more normal than that shit…” A shudder ripped through her spine. “What do I do? What now? She told me...go to Volunruud. Speak to a guy named Amaund Mottierre. And tell Cicero...the words, she said tell him ‘darkness rises when silence dies’ or some cryptic shit like that…”

Arnbjorn’s mouth twitched. “I don’t trust that clown...especially if his pet corpse said he wanted to be Listener. What if he acts out cause someone who doesn’t like the Tenets is Listener now?”

“Let’s find Babette and Krogan,” Hekatah rubbed her wrist. “Ask them what they think...before Cicero shows up. Krogan got back last night, right? Let’s talk to him and Babette...”

What Krogan thought was obvious. They knew what he would say even before asking. 

“Ignore it,” the Orc insisted. “We did fine before. Who needs this Motierre man? We don’t. You joined for Astrid, Hekatah. There’s no need to suddenly turn your back on that devotion just because a dead woman told you to.”

The Dunmer woman blushed vibrantly, but any retort she had was cut off by Babette.

“Motierre? That’s an old and powerful Breton family, firmly established in Cyrodiil. Most curious...now, Astrid was my leader, and it seems our Hekatah is these days, but...we might benefit thoroughly from taking this chance. I say go to Volunruud and see what this man wants. We can sort out this Listener stuff later, but I smell a very high-profile contract in the making.” Babette said calmly, before adding with a chiding finger-waggle, “and remember, Cicero’s position is sacred. You promised him respect while he’s here.”

Hekatah scowled. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t want to tell him, though...Krogan, while I’m gone...or Babette, please, since Krogan should leave too. It’s ‘darkness rises when silence dies’, that’s what you need to tell him.”

“Very well. You’re going to have to face him at some point, though, you know…”

“We’ll work that out later. Right now, I don’t want to be here.”


	49. Forty-Nine

If one had asked Motierre a day ago, he would have said he was close to giving up. The decrepit tomb had been all but silent, untouched, just him and Rexus, waiting, nervously, for any sign of the Dark Brotherhood, jumping at the slightest noise, for fear that it was draugr, or worse, the assassins. He had thought perhaps they would never come; that they were too weak, that they had in fact been wiped out in that botched raid...but then she had arrived, and he became fully aware of just how wild his plan had been, how severe his actions were, and how treacherous those he had contacted to carry out his will could be. 

The (he assumed, though she was almost entirely hidden in her robes, and he could not be positive) woman before him was of the stock he had expected; small, slender, and unnerving, perfectly built to slip in and out of windows, doors, castles, dungeons, unnoticed but leaving an unmistakable mark behind. He could not see her face hidden beneath her mask- or at least, he hoped it was a mask, and that she did have a face underneath- and hood, just a pair of wide, white eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness of the ruin, peering out as it from a void, piercing him like a poisoned arrow. 

He had known what to anticipate, at least cognitively...he had known of the Brotherhood’s ilk. Her silent footsteps, her lithe, swift movement, the way her presence both commanded and faded from the room...the way she had approached him before he even knew she had approached...it was what he had heard of in the tales. But gods...having her in front of him now, he truly understood the fear that the dwindling assassins once gripped the continent with. It began to dawn on him that cognisant awareness and legitimate knowledge were two very, very different things.

“By the almighty Divines...you’ve come. You’ve actually come...this dreadful Black Sacrament thing...it worked…” More shocking than the success of the Sacrament was the success of his vocal cords. 

She said nothing, just stepped a bit closer, and rested a hand on her waist. A Dunmer, then, judging from the gray fingers protruding from her glove. Her physique was not threatening. But the aura about her...he felt that if he had so much as moved in her direction, he would be dead before he felt her dagger in his flesh. Was she, perhaps, the one who slew the acclaimed Commander Maro? Was she one of the ones who was thought to have perished, or...was the Brotherhood’s reach farther than the Oculatus had suspected? Was she some grand high-ranking member from a faraway land? Who was she beneath that stone exterior? Was she someone he had met? Someone from Cyrodiil? Was her whole existence swathed in murky deaths, or did she lead a double life? Did she have a family? A wife, a husband, a spouse, children? Did she love, did she hate, did she feel anything at all? Or was she nothing more than a mechanical murderer, driven like a Dwemer robot powered not by steam, but by pure bloodlust?

“Right, then,” he continued, looking into that cold dead stare, swallowing a lump in his throat and rubbing his clammy palms together. He felt icy sweat trickle down his spine, and shuddered. “You prefer to listen, is that it? Well, you must represent the Dark Brotherhood. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone else. So I'll cut to the chase. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well... centuries."

Nothing. No emotion. Just two simple words. “Go on.”

“As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable.” He sensed amusement from her. Or perhaps he had projected it, in some desperation to feel that she was a person, and not some apparition or aminuclius. “But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt.”

The phrasing was poorly chosen. He saw her stiffen at the word ‘cutthroat’- was she offended? But he pressed on...he could appease her with the reveal. “For I seek the assassination of...the Emperor."

Finally, a real reaction, one that he could read with certainty. Seeing mortal feeling reflected in her glare was almost overwhelming, and he felt himself grow weak as what was visible beneath her coverings brightened in what almost seemed to be excitement. 

“The Emperor. Of Cyrodiil.” The reply came slowly, with a wavering undertone, and she raised her quivering hand to where her mouth should have been, opalescent gaze growing to almost alien proportions. When she continued, her words became louder, and he heard a grin in her voice. “Oh, we’ll take it, of course we will!”

“Wonderful! You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that…” He glanced away from her. The sudden change in her tone, the enthusiasm to carry out such a deed...no sane person would light up in such a way at the prospect of murdering someone, let alone someone so important. Even those who loathed the Emperor...such open delight in a task like this one...madness! He was trifling with people not to be trifled with. “So much has led to this day. So much planning, and maneuvering. It's as if the very stars have finally aligned. But I digress. Here, take these to your...um... superior. Rexus. The items. Now, this letter...certain details will have to be changed, with your, ah...recent endeavors. But I’m sure your leader can figure it out. Now then. The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable...you can use it to pay for any and all expenses.

His bodyguard silently handed her the package, and she inspected it without opening it before raising her head again. “Very well. We shall see. And payment? I trust you have payment planned? That would be safest. For you, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. I will reveal the location of the payment to you when the contracts are all completed.”

“Hm. I suppose...well, I trust you understand that if you don’t pay properly, there will be consequences.” The assassin tucked his instructions and amulet in her sleeve. He could have sworn her eyes had gotten even bigger, and he heard her trying to stifle gleeful laughter. “Well, sera. You’ve opened the door to quite a mess, I hope you know that. This is absolute insanity.”

“Oh, I know, I know, but...you will see, this will be worth it for the both of us!”

“My organization shall be the judge of that. Now. If you will excuse me…” She turned her back on him pointedly, and entirely, still with that crazy mirth hovering about her. Was she a fool, leaving herself exposed? Or was she simply that powerful? He would never know; she walked out of his sight with the air of a Jarl, so smoothly that if he had not been looking at her, he would have never known where she went. 

His plan was nothing short of plain idiotic. If anything at all went awry, all his work...his meticulous, effortful work would fall apart. But what was done was done, and as Dark Brotherhood’s representative vanished from Volunruud, the wheels were set in motion for a series of events that would change Tamriel and all its residents forever.


	50. Fifty

“So,” the wiry voice grated on her nerves before she was even fully through the threshold. “You are the Listener now. Oh, yes; you thought you could get away without telling poor old Cicero. But he knows. He knows all.”

“Allegedly, yes, I am Listener,” she answered icily. She did not know if, somehow, he had foreseen when she would return, or if he had been waiting at the door for her all this time, but either thought was bone-chilling, and yet despite herself, she provoked him. “That’s what the dead old woman said, anyway.”

The jester tapped his dagger lightly. “Cicero hopes this turn of events will help you respect the Night Mother more…”

“Tch. That thing did nothing for us when we needed it. I’ll be the judge of whether or not it’s worth doing what it wants, like Astrid was before me,” She brushed past him, and his glare burned holes in her back as he muttered a vague threat beneath his breath that she did not hear.

Krogan was the first of her Family to greet her in the Sanctuary, a cynical bitterness molding his face. “What’d you find out? Waste of time, huh?”

She shook her head and pulled her mask from her nose, and Krogan raised his eyebrows as he saw the snakelike grin on her lips. “This is a ridiculously huge contract. It could turn Tamriel on its head. He wants us...to assassinate the Emperor.”

“Bullshit! No way!”

“No, listen...let’s go find Babette and Arn and Yolskja…” She wove her way into the Sanctuary, which, to her mild surprise, seemed to have begun its repairs although no workers dotted the cold halls at the moment. “Hey, you all! I have news; big news!”

The others gathered about, save for Cicero, whose apparent absence would have concerned some if not for the anticipation of what news their Listener could have possibly brought back.

“I met with Motierre. He...wants us to assassinate...Emperor Titus Mede.”

Babette and Yolskja exchanged a wide-eyed, fervid glance, while Arnbjorn laughed heartily. 

“You’re kidding. No way. Come on, now, beef roast, what did he really want?”

Hekatah lowered her hood. “I’m dead serious. He gave me a letter and an amulet he said would pay for everything. The letter is very vague...he seemed nervous. But I think I’ve worked out what it all means. Or most of it, anyway. Hear me out. And then- we’ll decide if we should take it.”

“Let me see,” demanded Arnbjorn, and Hekatah handed him a small, unsealed package. “This is stupid.”

“Read it yourself,” she said cockily, and Arnbjorn arched a brow at her. “There’s three steps to the plan. We have to lure the son of a bitch to Skyrim, disrupt security enough for us to get close, and then kill him. Obviously, I’ll be the one completing the assassination of the bastard myself. The Empire murdered me grandmother and left us to die in the Crisis. I’m gettin’ even. Any Dunmer would be lucky to murder the Emperor...I mean...if we agree. Oh, but we have to agree! This is huge!!”

Without saying a word, Arnbjorn scanned the letter, his eyes growing bigger with every line, and then he handed the package back to Hekatah, finally mumbling, “by Talos, he really does want the Emperor dead.”

“So,” said Babette, twirling a finger through her hair. “What are these three steps, specifically?”

“Well...the first step is simple. Soon, Vittoria Vici is getting married. People have been talking about it all year. I overheard her saying something crucial when I was there with me father a while back; the Emperor is her cousin. Something grandiose...if his cousin dies, in front of all of Solitude, on the day of her wedding...won’t he want to come to Skyrim?” she grinned wickedly. “It would look bad...he’s not coming to her wedding, of course, and if he doesn’t come to her funeral after she’s gone and gotten murdered, won’t that become the talk of Tamriel? Don’t you think that would make tensions worse?”

Yolskja nodded. “That’s good...what’s the next step?”

“This one, I’m not sure about. We’ll have to do some sneaking around in Dragon Bridge...when the Emperor comes to Skyrim, the Penitus Oculatus will be handling security. Commander Maro would have been the one in charge, but…”

“I killed him.” Arnbjorn said the words with caustic pride, and Hekatah gazed up at him with some strange, heartfelt expression. 

“Right. We have to find the person responsible for that in his place, and...sabotage them, somehow. The thing is...we don’t have a ton of people right now. And Yolskja...you need to go back to Riften to get this amulet inspected. The Thieves Guild has the only fences in Skyrim.” Hekatah touched her lower lip thoughtfully. “And then the final step...there’s a specific chef that was brought to Skyrim on indefinite hiatus in case the Emperor chose to return after a cancelled trip. Motierre wants us to find this chef and...convince him to let us cook in his place, if you get my drift. Now, that last part, I’ll have to handle, because I’ll be the one disguised as the chef. But…”

“He wants us to poison the Emperor?” Arnbjorn frowned. “That’s boring.”

“Um, I think we can carry out the actual killing however. Once he dies, guards will be after me anyway. So I can slit his throat or whatever. But my point is...I don’t quite know how to go about this with our very limited...manpower, I guess.”

“How about this?” said Babette, clearly thinking as she spoke. “Yolskja leaves immediately to get that necklace inspected. As soon as she’s done, she goes to that wedding, and finds a way to subtly kill Vici. It would make sense for the Dragonborn to attend such an important marriage, right? And then in the meantime, I’ll sneak back into Dragon Bridge to collect information. And...perhaps, depending on how much that necklace is worth, we can hire some investigators to uncover this chef for us.”

Hekatah rubbed her hands together. “Babette, you’re a genius! And while this is going on...I’ll learn to cook...cook something that isn’t horrifically spicy. I also want to start...improving me magic...me skills with the dagger...I don’t want to lose to anyone else, and I felt like I was getting stronger when we fought the Companions. I wanna keep that strength up.”

“You’re going to need it...you’ll probably be facing the Penitus Oculatus again at some point,” Yolskja murmured, and her face turned pale as she realized the implications. “Oh, gods. Can you really do that alone? Are we sending you to your death?”

“We could accompany you.” Arnbjorn said quickly. “In case something goes bad.”

“I have to go. I have to kill him meself. The Empire let me country fall into ruin during the Oblivion Crisis and killed me grandmother. Horrible things- what the Dunmer went through because of the Empire...so many horrible things. Killing the Emperor...that would be the most important thing I’ve accomplished.”

“Calm down, little freak. I wouldn’t waste time worrying about that yet. We have a lot of work to do before it comes to the man himself- and a lot of time. We should start spreading out and looking for information. The one thing I’m worried about right now,” said Krogan slowly, and quietly, “is having you and Arnbjorn here alone with Cicero. We should be careful that we don’t all leave at once. I don’t trust that jester.”

“If that clown even looks at us funny, I’ll rip him apart. He won’t lay a finger on either of us. You shouldn’t base your travel times around me or her,” Arnbjorn assured the Orc, who sighed. “Or we could just...not all go at once, I guess.”

“That’s the smartest thing I think you’ve ever said,” Krogan grumbled. “Look, let’s not rush into things just yet. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s just start with getting that amulet appraised, and we can decide what to do after we know its worth.”

“What if this is all some kind of set-up?” Yolskja blurted out. “The Night Mother...what if she’s setting us up? So that the people who rejected her…”

“I don’t like thinking she’s even smart enough to do that.” Arnbjorn folded his arms huffily. “She’s just some dead lady relaying messages from some creepy death god. Stop overthinking and get moving. I want to know what that amulet is.”


	51. Fifty-One

Yolskja expected the arrow. Faedryl was...predictable, if nothing else. Still, if she hadn’t just managed to off-put its course with her dagger...a chunk of her ear would have gone missing. 

“Watch what you’re doing!” she hissed, sheathing her blade as Faedryl sneered.

“Oh, you just can’t get enough of me, can you?” the Guildmaster smirked as she set down her bow. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back, but I can’t blame you. I guess I have that kind of charm.”

“Do you treat everyone like this?” Yolskja seethed. “Or am I just special?”

“Not everyone. Only bitches sleeping with scrawny jumped-up little assassins I don’t like,” Faedryl’s smirk broadened, and she leaned over the side of the stack of crates she always sat on to pointedly kiss her bodyguard’s cheek. “It’s a shame you piss me off so much, or you could have been one of us. It would be a better gig than your ragtag cutthroat gang; I treat my workers very well. You’d never make a good thief though. Murder and stealing just don’t mix here.”

Then she sombered, and leapt down from her perch just like before, with her weapon in hand and a frown on her thin lips. “Relax. I’m messing with you. In seriousness, what in the name of Y’ffre brought you back here? You better not be looking for Spikes...he’s not here, that’s all I’ll say, and it’s you people’s fault.”

“It isn’t mine.”

“What your little _friend_ did to him shook him up so badly he even doubted my strength. Your men made him so afraid he left us thinking we’d die if someone came looking for him. So you’re damned lucky I didn’t follow up that first shot with another one. You wouldn’t be here if I had. Now answer my question, or I might regret my mercy.”

“I told you, it’s not on me!” snarled the Dragonborn, her hands balling into fists. “And I need to talk to Delvin again!”

Faedryl snorted and tossed her shaggy chartreuse hair over her shoulder. “What this time? We got your payment; the repairs should be in order. Are you sure you aren’t just here to see me again? Look, I’m taken.”

“I need him to appraise something.”

Those sharp autumnal eyes travelled up and down Yolskja’s body, from her face to her boots, in an intense, powerful way that made her feel uncomfortably hot. She hoped she wasn’t blushing.

“I’ll tell you something, Miss Dragon-Slayer. You’re one bold bitch, coming in here and asking favour after favour.” The Bosmer crossed her arms. “Fine. If it gets you out of here for good. I’ll go fetch him. You stay right here. Vorstag, babe, keep her locked down, if you don’t mind?”

The Nord nodded. “Of course, my love.”

His much smaller companion turned and left the room, taking her sweet time as she meandered through the bar, and Yolskja’s gaze travelled about the mingling thieves. She could have sworn there were more wandering about than there had been...one in particular stood out to her. A child, with a humanoid complexion, but a golden tinge to his skin that seemed to shimmer when the torchlight hit him just so, and deadness in his bright green eyes. 

Her mouth formed the words _what the fuck?_ and the Nord man looked over at her. 

“You’re curious about the boy?” he asked. Yolskja nodded, and he lowered his voice. “That’s Kardir. One of our members- Spikes’ sister- is also a Companion...or she was, anyway, until their ranks were almost completely destroyed. Their mead hall was burned down, and Kardir’s mother was staying with them. He lives with us now...Juno brought him back, couple of weeks ago, completely distraught. She says she thinks it was a group called ‘the Silver Hand’ or something. Terrible timing...though it would be terrible at any time.”

Yes, that was news Yolskja had heard...internally, she swore at Hekatah for doing such a deed that left this poor young kid orphaned and traumatized. Aloud, she asked Vorstag why he was acting friendlier than Faedryl, especially when in their first meeting he had been nothing but silent and hostile.

He shrugged, not quite looking at her. “I love my wife dearly, but I’ve come to think she’s wrong on you. Spikes- before he left- said some things that suggested he thinks well of you, despite what the rest of the Brotherhood did...so I don’t think you’re too untrustworthy.”

“I appreciate that…just wish your stupid woman would see the same way.”

A flash of anger crossed his naturally kindly expression. “Watch it. She has her reasons that I respect, and you’d best do the same. She cares about the Guild, and does what she thinks is best. And she has the right to be terse right now. Spikes and Juno are preparing to face down a clan of vampires, which I would say is more noble work than what you do.”

Yolskja almost defended herself, but before the words came out, Faedryl returned with Delvin. 

“Get it over with and get out,” she said sourly, and Delvin approached Yolskja with a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“What does the Brotherhood need this time?” he asked. 

Yolskja handed him the envelope with the amulet. “We need you to appraise this. Heka- I mean, we came into it under some...unusual circumstances. We need you to tell us what it is, and how much it’s worth.”

“Oh?” Delvin slit open the package with his dagger, and carefully lifted the necklace. When he saw it in full, his jaw dropped, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Oh. Oh my. Oh...let's see... where, oh, where did you get this? Don't answer- I don't want to know. This is an amulet of the Emperor's Elder Council. Specially crafted for each member. Worth a small fortune. Ain't somethin' you'd give up lightly. Look, it ain't my business to tell the Dark Brotherhood its business, but if you killed a member of the Elder Council, you'd better belie-!"

“We didn’t kill him. Will you buy it?” 

“Buy it?” he said incredulously. “This? An Elder Council amulet?”

Faedryl’s gaze locked firmly onto the treasure, her irises glittering oddly. “You better buy it, Delvin, I swear to Arkay.”

“I will, boss. I will. Mmm...normally, our arrangement was a letter of credit used only by Astrid. But...that’s not really an option anymore, is it…? This is worth fifteen thousand septims. Although for a rich woman like you...that’s hardly anything, hmm?” 

“It’s not much for us, either, Delvin, we’re beyond well-off now. Just buy the damn thing.”

Yolskja shot her a look. “If you’re so well off, why are you still living in a sewer?”

“You want us to pay you or not? Keep your mouth shut.”

“Make me.”

“Maybe I will.” Faedryl stepped closer, her jaw set. She was short- so short- but her face seemed too close.

The two women glowered at each other until Delvin cleared his throat to interrupt them. “I’ll take it, and I’ll pay you upfront. But whatever it is you’ve gotten into...leave our Guild out of it from now on. Once the repairs are finished, we won’t deal with you any longer. I don’t think you realize how serious this is. You’re going to destroy what remains of your organization, an’ you’re not taking us down with you.”


	52. Fifty-Two

It was the dead of night when Yolskja finally slogged through the snowdrifts of Dawnstar and entered the new Sanctuary. Still more progress had been accomplished- but not too fast. An insane amount of workers were required, for they could not leave with the password, and had to be subtly killed off once their jobs were finished. 

Inside, it was silent. Too silent for her comfort; there were no crickets, no distant howls, none of the comforting ambience that she had grown so accustomed to in Falkreath. The only sound echoing across the chilly halls was a very faint, metallic grind. She almost felt like she was imagining it.

If it had been some other time, she might have gone to investigate, but she was still raw and frustrated from her interactions with the Guild, even days later, and she just wanted to sleep in an actual room. 

The others were in bed, or at least whatever passed for one. Babette slept on a small bedroll on the ground, Hekatah in a cot, and Krogan and Arnbjorn on the floor next to a small fire that was foolishly unattended, or so she thought. 

The moment she stepped into the room, Arnbjorn jolted upright with wild eyes and reached for his axe. When his gaze landed on her, he sighed deeply, and laid back down with his hand resting on his chest. “Oh, it’s just you...just you…”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothin’. I...even when Astrid was alive, I never slept well when she wasn’t there with me, so it’s been difficult to rest ever since...and now with that little man scamperin’ around...I’ve hardly slept at all. Just in case...”

“Ah...I see.” 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to...nevermind.” Arnbjorn rubbed his eyes. “You should sleep. It’s late. I’ll keep here and make sure that witless fool doesn’t try anything.”

“Are you really that worried about him?”

“He’s a fanatic, it’s obvious. Worse than Hekatah. He might try and kill us all for ‘disrespectin’ the Night Mother’ or some shit.” Arnbjorn shrugged. “It’s fine. Werewolves rarely sleep anyway, so I can keep this up for a long time. Just go to bed. Don’t worry about me.”

Yolskja stretched out on her own cot, shivering slightly. She didn’t want to argue any more with anyone. “Fine. I’ll tell you all what I found out in the morning…” 

It felt like she had barely spoken the words before the crackling of a torch creeped into her mind as the Brotherhood slowly roused themselves. 

“Oh, Yolskja’s back…” Krogan’s voice was the first one she heard as she lay facedown, thick auburn hair over her eyes. “Must’ve gotten back late last night…”

The sound of someone very small shifting forward followed. “I wonder what she learned.”

“Probably best not to wake her yet…she was pretty wiped out when she got home...” groaned Arnbjorn from the floor. “Hey, Babette...you can cook, right…? Someone’s gotta make breakfast and Talos knows it can’t be me or Krogan.”

“I mean, I can. Isn’t Hekatah supposed to be cooking though?”

“She’s still asleep…I’ll try to rouse her, but she doesn’t like getting up, and she’s still getting used to how cold Dawnstar is.”

“I’ll do it then, I suppose.”

The small figure slid off of her bed and lightly walked out of the room, followed eventually by Krogan’s heavy footsteps. Yolskja cracked open one eye, peering through her heavy, tangled locks, and watched Arnbjorn rise with a grunt and crack his neck. The effort it took him to get out of bed since the raid...he acted like an old man. The last time he’d had any kind of spark...well, she assumed he had fought hard against the Companions, but in her memory, the last time he’d shown his true self was when he was trying to kill Spikes...and that thought made her feel ill. 

“Oi, Hekatah...wake up.” He seemed to shift her cot slightly. “Babette’s makin’ breakfast. Yolskja got back last night. Wake up.”

The response he got was a quiet, disgruntled “mmmm”. 

“C’mon. Get up.”

“Mmmm.”

A soft chuckle. “Fine, fine, sleep in a little. I’ll come back when breakfast is ready...”

And then Yolskja drifted off again, waking up again several hours later, and finding her Family gathered in what was progressively becoming more and more of a kitchen. 

“Oh, finally,” said Krogan sardonically when he saw her. “Lazy ass.”

“Oi. Watch your mouth,” Yolskja glowered at him. “So. I went to the Guild.”

“What’d you find out?” Hekatah was wrapped in several blankets, looking discontented. She supposed there was no blame there; Dawnstar was freezing, after all, and Arnbjorn hadn’t been wrong about Hekatah’s trouble with the climate. 

“Well, first thing is...they’re cutting us off. We can’t go back to them for anything after the repairs are done here.” Yolskja sat down heavily. “Spikes wasn’t there, before you ask. Also, they’ve adopted Paloine’s kid…”

Arnbjorn turned pure white. “What? So then…Hekatah!”

“I...there’s no way…there shouldn’t be any evidence...”

Yolskja shook her head. “No! It’s not like that...Faedryl’s man said they suspect the Silver Hand.”

Arnbjorn relaxed visibly. “Okay. Okay…wait, how’d they…?”

“Spikes’ sister is a member, I think.”

“Oh, that little human-wannabe _would_ be, wouldn’t she?” Hekatah’s lip curled. “Stupid fetcher! I can’t wait till the Nords turn their backs on her just like they would any other mer!”

She paused, and glanced at Arnbjorn out of the corner of her eye. “M-Most Nords, I mean...the Stormcloak types. You and Astrid…”

“I know.” He said just the two words, and Hekatah breathed a sigh of relief. “So...what else? What about the amulet?”

“Motierre is on the Elder Council. I sold the amulet for fifteen grand.”

“A Council member, huh?” Babette’s fangs flashed as her little mouth split open in a grin. 

Hekatah touched her lower lip in the way she did when she was thinking, and then that wide, wide smile emerged. “So he’s probably trying to upend the Empire for his own gain...oh, that’s just what I wanted to hear...that’s so lovely!”

“Fifteen thousand septims, huh?” Krogan added pensively. “That’s a lot. Enough for expenses...and then some.”

Hekatah tilted her head to the side. “And it’s good timing, too. Cause we’ve done a little research, and Yolskja, you gotta prepare for a wedding.”


	53. Fifty-Three

“So, you remember what we came up with, right?” Hekatah placed a neatly packed knapsack in Yolskja’s hands. 

The Dragonborn nodded. “Babette found a loose stone above the bride’s seat. I’ll sneak up there, give it a little push, and make a break for it.”

“Right. Be careful, ok? If you’re even a little bit suspicious, the whole thing could fall in on itself…and with your status, that would cause even more problems...”

“I know, sunshine. Don’t worry about me.” Yolskja slung her knapsack over her shoulder, noting that there was one member who had not come to see her off. “Now, you keep an eye on yourself too. I see Cicero still hasn’t warmed up…”

Babette shrugged. “I’ve spoken to him some. He’s quite charming, really. I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about as long as we don’t instigate.”

The last word was said with subtle inflection, and a pointed glance in Arnbjorn and Krogan’s direction. Krogan rolled his eyes, and Arnbjorn bore his teeth.

“Of course,” Hekatah clasped her hands together nervously, glancing at the two men. “Arnbjorn? Krogan? Any advice before Yols leaves?”

Krogan grunted. “Don’t fuck up.”

“You’ve gotta kill a soft little woman on her wedding day…” Arnbjorn scoffed. “What’s our next job, killing a sickly orphan in his sleep? Ha. You’ll do fine. Just remember what Hekatah said to do and don’t try anything stupid.”

“Thanks for the tips, guys,” Yolskja said dryly. “Alright. I’ll be back before you know it. Keep working on deciphering the rest of that letter. See ya.”

Hekatah stood up on her toes and kissed her quickly, and then the Nord waved one last goodbye and left, beginning the admittedly easy journey to Solitude. 

She had all but forgotten how it felt to travel openly, without needing to sneak into cities at night, creep into sewers, and hide her brilliant, distinct hair in hoods and caps. It was almost uncomfortably simple.

The wedding itself was not something she cared much for. Politics, the Empire, the Civil War, all of it was beneath her, and the kill- as big of a kill as it was- was little more than just another contract. It would be a brilliant one, though...one that would shake all of Skyrim to its very core. 

Some might think it was an accident. A very unfortunate accident. And they wouldn’t be out of line for holding that belief. But most would know better. A conveniently timed death, a wealthy noble, a highly controversial marriage, in the midst of a conflict that had all but torn Skyrim in half...even if the death had been an ill-timed sickness, or the work of wild animals, Yolskja was sure that pandemonium would erupt across the province. 

And this...this would create the kind of chaos that assassins worked best in.

The courtyard was packed when she arrived, even though it was still quite early. People with ties to both the Empire and the Stormcloaks were mingling, arguing, drinking and dining. Businessmen, the representatives of Jarls, decorated Legionnaires, and even the young widowed Elisif were all amongst the guests. Children weaved around the legs of the adults, snatching bits of cake and royal foods from the polished silver platters lining tables against the walls. A homeless veteran huddled in the corner, scarfing down whatever scraps he could find. 

“Oh, Dragonborn!” exclaimed the priest when he saw her arrive. “Welcome!”

“Good morning.”

“I’m so glad to see you here. I’m afraid you missed the vows- the couple seemed to want to focus on the reception. But there’s still plenty of time left to celebrate this wonderful union.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have a lovely time.”

Even with such famed and respected attendees around her, and even though the party wasn’t for her, Yolskja was met with no lack of attention and flattery. She had made certain to look the part- the long braid draped over her shoulder was entwined with fresh flowers, and shone brilliantly in the sun, and when she smiled at those crowding around her, she smiled with warmth and kindness worthy of the hero who had stopped Alduin and saved not only the province, but the world. 

“I’m so honoured that the Dragonborn herself would attend my wedding,” Vittoria gushed when Yolskja approached her to give her regards. “What an amazing day...all this kindness...just for me...and my husband...it’s overwhelming.”

“Congratulations, Mrs Vici,” answered Yolskja with another disarming smile. “I had hoped you wouldn’t mind me attending.”

“Oh, gods, no! It’s such an honour...please, enjoy yourself to the fullest! All these festivities...they’re for you too! And all the rest of my guests, of course. Eat, drink, be merry!”

“I certainly will. Congratulations again.” Yolskja dipped her head and vanished back into the crowd, not truly engaging so much as eavesdropping and mindlessly chattering, until out of the corner of her eye she saw Vittoria and her new husband rise from their seats of honour and begin making their way towards a certain balcony beneath a certain statue. 

A palatable excitement rose from the masses. Everyone began trying to find a place to sit or stand to listen to what the Emperor’s cousin would say, and in the bustling mess, Yolskja slipped away entirely unnoticed.

“Good friends and neighbors,” Vittoria began, her rich voice wavering with the staggering euphoria of being freshly married. “I hope you are all enjoying yourselves on this most happy of days.”

Oh, yes, a happy day indeed…the gargoyle hung precariously overhead, a visible crack lining its base that had not yet been noticed or fixed by the city guard. It would not fall on its own. But with a little persuasion…

“Fus.”

The Shout was uttered quietly, hardly above a whisper. With Vittoria’s loud prattling captivating the attention of everyone below, it was unthinkable that Yolskja’s Voice had been heard. Its effects, however, would be deafening. 

A creaking sound. It would fall, and soon. She made for the courtyard quickly, hoping to beat the rock to ground level. Everyone’s focus was on the bride. Perfect. 

The creaking grew louder, and the gargoyle shifted forward. Oblivious, Vittoria rambled on. But the audience had noticed...noticed too late.

There was no time for anyone to do anything. A gasp swept over the sea of man and mer, and someone screamed, and then the giant carving careened from its treacherous perch. The hapless woman looked up above her, mouth opening to cry out, her own death reflected in her widening eyes, but she could not flee, and with a sickening crunch of many, many bones, Vittoria Vici was crushed beneath the monument. Her hand, stretched out to her side, twitched once, and scarlet pooled out from beneath the granite, seeping down from the balcony to the yard below, and then she was still. 

Silence. Even the birds stopped singing, and the wind stopped blowing, and the waves lapping at the Solitude coast became quiet. 

“No...no…” The groom stood perfectly still, his blank stare glazing over, and stared at the broken and mangled corpse of his lover, tears flowing soundlessly down his face and blood splattered across the hem of his fine clothing. “NO! NO! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!!”

He fell to his knees, trying fruitlessly to push the stone off of his wife, scratching at the makeshift gravestone until his fingers began to bleed. “NO! NO!!” 

Elisif backed herself against a wall, her hands over her mouth, and her complexion pale and ashy. “Dead...no...this is a disaster!”

“It’s the Stormcloaks!” screamed the mother of the bride. “THEY KILLED MY DAUGHTER!”

“It was the Empire!” shouted the father of the groom, forcing his way towards Vittoria’s mother. “I know it! THEY KILLED HER TO BLAME IT ON THE STORMCLOAKS!”

They stood face-to-face, his cold countenance blatantly mocking her weeping eyes. Another beat of silence as they stared each other down. And then all hell broke loose. The Civil War had finally slithered its way into the catastrophic, ill-fated marriage, and the Stormcloak Nords and loyal Imperials drew their weapons simultaneously and attacked each other with all the might and fury of a trained army.

There was clawing, and howling, and yelling and clashing of swords, and there were red drops that rained from the tips of blades, and there was crying and wailing and shrieking, and then someone’s body hit the ground and that was when those who had no affiliation, who had previously been standing by, watching in horror, paralysed by the traumatic scene they had witnessed and the following outbreak of madness, began an utter mad dash for safety.

Yolskja hesitated, as if she was still frozen in fear, and then chose to join them as the guard descended upon the fighting families, the wave of fleeing guests burst out into the city, sweeping up those who hadn’t attended in the turmoil. 

The confusion grew, with guards and vendors and merchants and street urchins and everyone else all scrambling in different directions, stepping on, trampling on each other, and for a brief moment, as she was painfully jostled around, Yolskja almost worried about her own safety. She had the urge to Shout again, toss around the insects that were so rudely bumping and pushing and shoving, but the Dragonborn Yolskja could not act out in such a manner. Hearts pounded up against her, the rush of blood that wasn’t hers flowed through her veins, and she practically swam through the masses until finally she burst free outside the city gates, panting, and shoving her way past the gate guards as they rushed inside to try and control the stampede. 

She was alone. Not really, for as the shouts and screaming grew louder, those from the docks and neighboring farms came to investigate, but they took no notice of the Dragonborn as she stood on the side of the road, with blossoming bruises and pearls of sweat forming on her flushed skin. 

With a light chuckle, she turned her face away from the lawlessness and began slowly walking back home. Her braid had come mostly undone and there were several rips in the nice dress Babette had so kindly whipped up for her, but a grand, warm satisfaction spread from her chest throughout the rest of her body as she looked back over her shoulder at the anarchy she had created, and she couldn’t help but let a draconic grin split her lips. “You know what they say, don’t you, Vittoria? Love hurts.”


	54. Fifty-Four

“Punishment!” 

The shrill voice echoed down the Sanctuary’s halls and struck Yolskja as if a Shout. 

“You invite _punishment!_”

“The Night Mother’s a corpse who needs a fetching clown to clean her, I don’t think she’s gonna climb out of her stupid closet and do me in!” Yolskja would have known the sharp Dunmeris accent anywhere. 

“Oh, Mother might not, but…!”

A deep growl. “You want to try it yourself, little man? Is that what you’re saying?”

Yolskja inhaled sharply. Arnbjorn and Hekatah arguing with Cicero...nothing good could come of that. 

“Come on, Arnbjorn, he can’t be _that_ dumb.”

Fuck. Krogan was there too...Yolskja shed her cloak and ran down the hall, finding the four assassins facing off, Hekatah’s palms resting on her daggers and Krogan reaching for his greatsword. 

“Dumb?! You would insult Cicero?! Reckless! Foolish! Dare I say...madness? You stupid brute, Sithis is on _my_ side!”

Hekatah jolted forward, and Yolskja’s heart almost stopped, but Arnbjorn grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. 

“I’ve got three times as many gods looking out for me! I don’t think you have a chance!” she spat, and Yolskja thanked the gods Arnbjorn was there to hold her still. 

Arnbjorn tightened his grasp. “Hekatah. If he tries anything, I’ll fight him myself. There’s no need for you or Krogan to get involved.”

“What are you idiots doing?!” Yolskja demanded, bringing the confrontation to a screeching halt, and Hekatah looked at her with a fiery expression. 

“I’m about to cut up this fool if he says one more thing about the Night Mother! I’m tired of him acting like we aren’t good enough on our own!”

“You promised him hospitality!”

“_If_ he respected that I’m the leader now!”

“Only because the Night Mother named you Listener! But how?! How can you be Listener?! No respect!!”

“I was in charge before the dead cunt spoke to me! I did more for this Brotherhood than you or your pet corpse ever did! I killed the traitor who destroyed us! I decided to let you in! I broke my back for Astrid and this Family bringing us gold and a reputation! I don’t owe you shite when you won’t put my name on the things we accomplished without you!”

Cicero’s fingers played on his knife. “Oh, just like your mistress, you are!”

That silenced her. As if hit by an invisible force, Hekatah stumbled backwards, a glow erupting beneath her skin the way it did when she was so embarrassed she might pass out, and Yolskja realized with mild amusement in the midst of her fear that Hekatah had drastically misunderstood the clown. “Wh- huh?! Hey, wait- I didn’t-!”

“Excuse me?” Arnbjorn’s lip curled, revealing sharp teeth just itching to sink into Cicero’s pallid flesh. Yolskja got the feeling he hadn’t misinterpreted Cicero like Hekatah had, but even the actual meaning of the jester’s words had ignited a fury in him.

“Her boss!” Cicero clarified hastily. “Astrid! Just like her! She didn’t want the Night Mother either!”

The werewolf almost answered, and the hand not on Hekatah was clenched into a taut fist, and Yolskja stepped in between them. 

“ENOUGH!” she yelled, and the room shook. “You’re all being stupid! We have a huge contract to work on and I have money to collect. And Cicero, don’t you have a Mother to attend to?”

Cicero shot her a piercing glare.

“Oh, yes, lady, order Cicero around,” he muttered. But, quieted by the accidental release of her draconic ability, he shrank away and scampered into the dark corridors. Arnbjorn watched him go, a snarl hissing through his fangs, before releasing his powerful grip on Hekatah. 

“Right. Contract.” Hekatah reached for where Arnbjorn’s hand had been, and then gave Yolskja a small coin purse. “A bit of gold from our funds…”

“What’s next?”

“Two things. Babette has already started hers. She’s heading to Dragon’s Bridge again to find out who has taken the place of Commander Maro. I don’t know what her plan is, but she’s going to do something to distract him. Not kill him. He’ll just be replaced again. But- if something were to happen to, say, someone he loves, he might not pay as much attention to the fact that the chef isn’t...you know, the intended chef.” She reached up her sleeve and produced a worn book from somewhere within the cloth. “And then, while she’s doing that, Krogan is going back to Markarth. We hired a private eye to do some sneaking around for us while you were gone. He’s dead now, of course, but he got what we needed. The chef we need to locate is a man-or we assume it’s a man- with the pseudonym ‘the Gourmet’. His real identity is known by almost nobody, except...well, nobody really. Or nobody that we know for sure. Very eccentric man. Very eccentric indeed…”

Krogan shifted his weight and took the volume from Hekatah. “So, what the Elf is getting at, that book is a copy of the Gourmet’s best recipes. What’s unique about it is that it’s autographed.”

“Addressed to one Anton Virane. That’s the master chef in Markarth. This might be a wild cliff racer chase, but I think that this suggests he knows who the Gourmet is. So, Krogan is gonna go find him, make him talk, and bring the info back to me. I’ll go find the fucker, kill him, and take on his identity. We might be a bit tight on time, but we can make it work. And then…” An excited shiver ran down her body. “And then I’m gonna kill the Emperor! I’ll tell the world it was the Dark Brotherhood and we’ll finally have the respect we deserve! The Empire will really, truly realize that they never stood a chance!”

“I was about to head out when Cicero started shit. You’ll keep an eye on things here while me and Babette are gone, right?” Krogan stepped towards the door. “That clown is less trustworthy than Spikes was.”

Yolskja sighed, but chose not to argue the point on their former friend. “Of course. If he tries to hurt anyone, he’ll regret it.”

“Good woman,” Krogan clapped her shoulder as he walked past. “Alright then. I’ll see you all in a bit then. Don’t mind it if you hear about Markarth getting cleaved up.”

“Whatever it takes, Krogan. Just don’t reveal who you are,” Hekatah reminded him.

He shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Stay safe, you three.”


	55. Fifty-Five

Dragon Bridge. An all-too-familiar town, with an all-too-familiar face hiding away in its shadows. 

Babette extended her hand from the chilly shade of the forest out into a patch of sunlight and watched smoke sizzle from her skin. That was the only drawback of being a vampire, really…it didn’t hurt too badly, but it was certainly a visible wound. 

She pulled her arm back to safety and ran her thumb over the seared flesh. Time...she had time on her hands. But didn’t she always? She was, after all, three centuries old. Time was never an issue. 

The day would pass in a blink for her. For the mortals, it would drag on longer.

It had to be boring to live in such a small village. The guards certainly thought so. That was, perhaps, their mistake.

She crept closer towards the edge of the woods, so light and small that her movement hardly made a sound, and locked her gaze onto a pair of soldiers leaning against the namesake bridge with drinks in hand and lips a little too loose. 

“D’ya think we shoulda been a lil more worried about that Argonian that passed through…” one slurred, and Babette’s interest piqued. “He looked pretty banged up…”

“Nah...he said it was just bandits…I’m sure he was fine...”

“Lotta bandits ’round here these days…” the first one shook his head drunkenly. “Whaddya think happened to that lil girl?”

“Dunno. Faida’s still real worked up over it…”

“Weird things goin’ on...the Companions all destroyed...that lil island off the coast had some kinda ruckus happenin’ other day...that weird busted up Argonian came through right after the Vici woman died...that kid showed up and vanished...I dunno, I don’t like the feelin’ of things right now…”

“That Argonian showed up right after whatever happened on that island...I don’t like the look of that…”

“Folks say there’s vampires on that thing. Maybe he got rid of ’em. Maybe he’s a hero.” 

“I dunno. I didn’t like that look in his eyes…somethin’ was off about the bastard.” He drained the last of his drink and tossed the tankard beneath the bridge carelessly. “He’s gone now though.”

The other one followed suit. “Thas probably enough for now…”

“Eh. I think…” He blinked slowly, gaze unfocused. “I think we’re good, probably...the Maro kid...he’d say somethin’ if we needed to be sober.”

“He’s all busy though,” pointed out his comrade. “He’s gotta work out security an’ all since the Emperor’s gonna come to Skyrim an’ his dad’s dead…”

“So’s then everyone would be focused on him. No need for us to get worried…”

“Yeah, I guess yer right…”

So Gaius Maro, then, had taken his father’s place. That young man, carrying the pride of someone born into wealth, was the person she had to destabilize. 

Surely he was already shaky at best. It had been quite some time since the Commander’s gruesome death, but losing one’s parent, especially when Gaius had no mother...really, there was only one person left at his side.

He would be taking security very seriously. Any mortal with half a brain could tell that, as accidental as it had seemed, Vittoria Vici’s tragic death was all too convenient. 

That was a lot of pressure on someone his age. It wouldn’t take a lot for him to snap like a twig beneath a horse’s hoof. The one person left at his side...an innkeeper. Now that profession had all kinds of interactions, didn’t they? The nature of their work...all kinds of people passed through, and as small a town as Dragon Bridge was, as little residents as it had, it was still a main road, and someone having a conversation with a bartender, someone even giving her slips of paper, that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows…

But the timing. The timing had to be right. If it happened just after the son left...no, not just after he left, that was too quick. And she had to frame it properly. A corpse. She would need a corpse. One from the Oculatus base. Someone who, if there was a possibility they had betrayed the Emperor, could cause a great deal of insecurity and paranoia within the elite guards’ forces.

But time. Timing was of the essence. 

They had the time. Krogan was still making for Markarth. It would be a while before the Emperor’s entourage entered Skyrim. Babette had been around for many years, had seen many emperors come and go, and seen many of their trips; she knew they wouldn’t take a direct path. 

So she waited. And she waited. And the pangs of hunger crept into her stomach, but there was naught she could do about it. A vampire’s mark was obvious. She could not feed on her prey. Not if she wanted the scene to be set. 

The son left the next morning, as the rosy blush of dawn painted the little villa a romantic pink. 

“Well, this is it, then,” said Faida softly, as if they were the only two people in the whole world. Her fingers brushed against his, and her gaze was coyly fixed upon the ground. “Look after yourself, Gaius.”

He clasped her hand. “Faida…”

“You’re doing your duty, and I’m proud of you.” There was a tenderness in her ragged, weary voice. “But you better come back to me. You hear?”

Gaius smiled, and Babette gagged silently. Young love. Disgusting. 

“Oh, Faida,” he said her name like it was glass, and he feared if he spoke too harshly it would break, and Babette could have strangled him then and there. “I may travel alone, but you know I always carry you in my heart. I’ll see you soon.”

They kissed, and then Gaius was off, and Faida disappeared back into her tavern. And Babette? Babette waited. She waited longer still. The days passed like minutes, but the minutes were agonizingly long. 

The forces of the Oculatus were spread thin. Many of the Skyrim lot had been killed trying to destroy the Dark Brotherhood. Recruits were hesitant, and those stationed in other provinces had no willingness to change their location after the Commander’s disastrous mistake. 

There was one Agent in the Outpost that night. Just the one. He never saw it coming. A kitchen knife in his throat, thrusting out of the shadows, killing him before he even recognized that his murderer was in the body of a child. 

She laid his corpse out back, tucked under the brush, where she would be able to retrieve it momentarily, but where others were unlikely to notice it, and took its weapon. Faida was next.

The Nord woman was still awake. Dark bags had formed under her eyes, graying the lower lid, wrinkled with worry. She stood at the counter, her chin in her palm, staring off into space meaninglessly. No doubt she was fretting over her lover. If only she had known. 

Babette made herself visible, hiding the blade she had taken from her first victim behind her back. “Hi.”

Faida’s eyes grew wide and she raised her head, recognition flooding her expression. “It’s you! What happened to you? Where did you go?”

“Oh, nowhere,” said Babette sweetly. Faida swept over towards her. 

“I was so worried about you! It’s been so long! What happened? What made you come back?”

“I found something in the woods.”

The words were suddenly monotonous, and there was a flash in the corner of Babette’s mouth, and Faida hesitated. “H-Huh?”

“I said, I found something in the woods.” Her lips parted, and she smiled broadly, and finally Faida noticed that the little girl was not in fact a little girl, but a vampiric monster, and she backed away with dawning horror.

“You were turned! No…”

“I was turned, yes. About three hundred years ago.” The smile grew wider. “Now if you don’t struggle, this will hurt less. But if you want to fight back it’ll make things a little more realistic. Just don’t scream. Then I won’t have time to finish the job.”

Faida backed away further, stumbling against her bar, and grabbed a knife that she held in front of her with both hands. “Stay away from me!”

Babette brandished her stolen shortsword. “Not so loud. I’ll be quick.”

Quick was an understatement. Vampires were fast- practically too fast to be seen. It was almost unfair, the number of wounds she was able to inflict in just a few moments. 

But all’s fair in love and war, and Faida died silently, with betrayal in her eyes and her jaw agape with a scream that never left her throat. And when the shift changed, and the guards came to the tavern to have their drinks, they would find her body on the floor, across from one of their very own Agents, their flesh carved up by each other’s weapons, and in between them a note detailing plans for the betrayal of the Emperor at the hands of the Oculatus, the signature tragically ruined by blood, leaving no clues as to which of them was the traitor, but they would never know that it was a set-up, and the true author would by then be many miles away laughing to herself.


	56. Fifty-Six

“You’re here again. You did not come to visit.” Alestrine never wavered in her words. She was never wrong, not when it came to him, and she knew it. “Now, you will tell me what you want.”

Krogan found himself avoiding eye contact with the Reachwoman that sat before him. He was rarely intimidated. But Alestrine intimidated him. Or...it wasn’t intimidation. No, that wasn’t the word. He was not afraid of her. She was strong, yet he was not concerned for his safety around her- he knew she would not hurt him. But he felt small when he faced her. 

There was no reason for it. She would never consider him lesser than her. She was not that kind of woman- she was an empathetic woman, a woman who believed in righteousness and equality. She was formal, but she was kind, she was aloof, but she was not emotionless. She was, at least by Krogan’s measure, a good person, and a person he could trust. Yet Krogan found himself submitting to her presence, as if she were already the Reach’s queen. 

Perhaps it was the Briarheart. Undergoing such a painful transition, and as young as she had undergone it, that was power. A level of power he could never hope to achieve or fathom. He didn’t understand why she had chosen to give up her life and become undead in that manner. She still aged, with the graying of her temples growing more prominent every meeting, and she still felt pain, and her body was not as fast or strong as a vampire’s, and she had to maintain the seed implanted in her body. 

But it was her culture. Her heritage. She was proud of it, and she bore that heart as her symbol that she was no longer afraid to fight for what she believed, and it was not his place to judge or question her. 

“Hey. Snap out of it. Answer me.” Alestrine waved a hand in front of his face. “Gods. What’s wrong with you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, sorry. Just...thinking. Look, I’m not here to ask you to take credit for a murder. I won’t need that. I wanted to ask you about someone in Markarth. You have eyes and ears there, right?”

“Of course we do.” Alestrine folded her hands in her lap. “Who do you take us for? Who do you want to know about? Name anyone.”

“Anton Virane.” Krogan handed her the signed cookbook. “We think he knows the identity of the Gourmet.”

“Old Anton, huh?” Alestrine scowled, flipping through the pages uncaringly. “Now that is one I’d like to get my hands on. And anyone who’s friends with him.”

“So you know him.”

“I told you. Name anyone within Markarth. Anyone at all. We will know them- and even those from other Reach settlements, too. I have done well in maintaining friendships with my peers.” She leaned back against the wall of the Redoubt and handed the book back to Krogan. “And he’s definitely someone the Reachfolk would know the name of. As you will see, Anton is a Breton. From High Rock. Daggerfall, to be specific. He’s very proud of it, and he’s very proud of being a Breton. You will hear him berating his assistants for being natives of the Reach. He thinks he’s better than us. He calls us filthy, barbarians. Hates being mistaken for us- for Reachfolk, I mean. Our people share ancestry, you know. But we are not the same, and he makes that clear to anyone who speaks to him, in a hateful way. He prizes politics because it’s not straightforward- he’s weak, and he can’t take a blatant attack. He’s a coward, too- easily intimidated by those bigger and more powerful than him. You won’t find it difficult to get something you want from him, but he will draw attention if he feels threatened.”

“He won’t get a chance. I’ll kill him.”

“I figured you intended to. You asked for a reason. And your reasons rarely leave survivors.” 

“I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her green lips. She tried to hide it, trying to maintain a regal distance, but she couldn’t help herself. “That’s rather presumptuous of you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” She reached up and poked him in the chest firmly. “But listen to me on this. Whatever you do- whoever else you kill- you will not lay a finger on the natives of the Reach. I won’t allow it. You will make it clear you’re not here to kill them. That Reachfolk are safe. I want to create peace between the Reachfolk in Markarth and those in the Forsworn, and I cannot do that if you murder the native people as well as the invaders, especially after your name was tied to mine in Cidnha.” 

“But otherwise I get free reign?”

Alestrine hesitated, and then sighed. “To be honest with you, the only one I want to kill personally is Ulfric Stormcloak. Anyone else in our way- anyone else who hurts and degrades us in our own home- as long as they’re gone, I don’t care how or why. But again; you will spare the Reachfolk. Still...I’m sure you’re not here to do me a favour. You are not the kind of man who would travel this far on such a whim. What’s going on?”

“Brotherhood business.”

“Figures. Care to elaborate?”

“You’ll hear about it later. Soon enough, but later.”

“Fair. So you’re going to go ahead, then?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to head right back home after though. So...sorry. Short chat.” He started to leave, and then paused. She had been so good to him- so open to him...it felt wrong to leave her in the dark. “Uhm...you know what? Actually- I’ll just go ahead and tell you, since it’ll be awhile until you see me again, and you and old Madanach have been real nice to me. Plus, you’ll appreciate it. We’re gonna assassinate the Emperor. Anton is gonna give us some of the information we need.”

A shock wave of silence swept over the Reachfolk. Nobody moved, and Krogan realized with chagrin that whenever he was around Alestrine, her friends and family were listening to his every word. 

“The _Emperor_?!” exclaimed another Briarheart from across the level. “Are you mad?!”

“The Dark Brotherhood has lost their minds!” said a hedgewitch. “Alestrine, you’re going to get us in hot water…”

“No,” Alestrine reached for her quarterstaff and tapped the ground to make her point, leaving a slight smoldering mark on the rocks. “I trust Krogan, and he will be doing us a service in this. And I trust the Dark Brotherhood to fulfill their contract without getting us involved further. Krogan will not tie us to the Brotherhood. Right, Krogan?”

She said the words with a tone of authority. 

“Of course.”

She waved him off. “Then go on. You will remember what I told you. And...good luck. Don’t die.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You take care of yourself, alright?”

And with that he left, weaving his way through the Forsworn stares and the winding Redoubt paths, ready, willing, and fully able to carve his chaos into Markarth’s bloody silver walls.


	57. Fifty-Seven

“Hey. You’re Anton Virane, right?”

Anton turned, and found himself looking at the midsection of an absolute monster of an Orsimer dressed in tarnished heavy armour. His gaze travelled upwards until he finally found the man’s face, which was strongly-featured, rugged, and bore ridges along the forehead. “Yes, and before you say anything, I am not from the Reach!”

“I know that. Everyone knows that. You make it clear.” He said the words with disgust.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The Orc bent down slightly and got straight to the point. His demand was spoken in a low voice, almost too quietly for Anton to hear. “I want the Gourmet’s true identity.”

He...wanted what? The secret that only Anton knew...the identity of his best friend...his mentor...what could this giant want with that?”

“The...the Gourmet?” The words fell out of his mouth. “No! Never! I don’t know what led you here, but I’ll never betray his trust. Never!! I’ll take the secret of the Gourmet’s identity to the grave!”

His visitor leaned down closer, and behind him, Anton saw his assistants standing off to the side with knowing looks on their faces, and on the brother’s was a smirk that made his blood run cold with fear. He had picked many a fight with the lad- there was nothing that could make the boy smile that would end well for himself. 

“The Dark Brotherhood can arrange that. And I’m quite sure that the Reachfolk around here wouldn’t mind seeing your corpse fed to the dogs.”

The cold in his veins turned to ice. Politics he could deal with. Politics he understood. The ins and outs of petty squabbles, the layers upon layers hidden within elegant parties and women in fine dresses and men in fancy suits dancing with each other and hiding their hatred behind compliments with double meanings, subtle threats spoken with innocent smiles, he knew all that. But blatant murder- blatant brute force, that was something he had no experience in. He was not trained to fight, much less to kill. 

And the man before him was a giant in every sense of the word. Tall, broad, and imposing, and though very little of his body was exposed, Anton had no doubts that beneath that armour was a healthy, heavy physique that could bat him across the room, crush his every bone, and not break a sweat.

Backing away, Anton raised his palms in surrender. “The Dark Brotherhood? Now...now wait a minute. Let's not get hasty. I mean, surely my friend wouldn't want me to endanger my own life. Right? Look, his name is Balagog gro-Nolob. He's an Orc! The Gourmet's an Orc! He's staying at the Nightgate Inn! That's all I know! Now...now you'll let me go. Right?" 

“I highly doubt that’s all you know. It seems like you and he are very close…” the Orc drew himself to his full height, which may have been average for one of his kind, but was far, far larger than anyone in Markarth, and folded his arms across his chest. “But that _is_ all _I_ need to know.”

“S-so you’ll let me go? Right? You have to let me go, I’ve told you everything!” Anton’s legs were trembling. 

The Orc smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of joy or friendliness. It was the same kind of smile that a crocodile with a hearty meal would smile with. It was the same kind of smile a sabre cat approached by a stranger would smile with. It was an act of aggression- a challenge. 

“I’m afraid not. I can’t have you ratting me out, now can I? You might not recognize me, but I do have a reputation to upkeep, and if you were to tell everyone about our little chat, things wouldn’t go so well for me. And besides- I have a very good friend who has had enough of the way you talk about the Reach natives. Perhaps you’ve heard of her- Madanach’s goddaughter? Alestrine?”

Anton’s hands fell limply to his side. “No...oh, please, no.”

The Orc turned towards his assistants and nodded, and they began to flee, and Anton realized with steadily growing terror that the assassin had big plans for Understone Keep. 

So he ran, too. He ran towards the Jarl, and the Jarl’s Housecarl, and the guards, and behind him he heard the steady thud of the cutthroat’s metal boots on the stone floor growing nearer and nearer. 

“What’s going on?” Faleen demanded, and he saw her and the Jarl draw their weapons. “Who is that?! Is that-?!”

“Assassin!” He dove behind the throne and cowered there, and to his dismay almost immediately he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. 

He peered out from behind the stone chair. Raerek’s corpse lay facedown, dripping blood along the stairs, and Faleen and Igmund were battling the Orc alongside the two stationed guards in the room. 

“Fuck’s sake,” growled the intruder. “I didn’t mean it when I told the others I was gonna cleave Markarth all up…but you don’t give me a choice! No witnesses and all…!”

“Save it for the mine!” snapped Igmund. He parried a blow, but left himself wide open in the aftermath, and as if in slow motion the Orc’s blade cut him. He stood, stunned, and then fell backwards, hitting his head hard on the floor. 

“My lord!” Faleen cried, and the Jarl coughed wetly, trying to rise, before a boot crushed his throat and finished him off, and the man clashed with Faleen and the guards once again. 

The Redguard pushed back against the Orc’s bloody sword. “You’ll pay for that!”

“I would disagree,” he retorted. “While I’m here, I might as well clear up some of the riff-raff. This place should be the Forsworn’s, you kn- oh, son of a bitch!”

Thank the gods, Anton thought to himself, trying not to move or make a sound. In the past he had found the presence of an Imperial soldier in the Keep annoying, but now he couldn’t have been more thrilled to see Legate Emmanuel arrive. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded the Legate, and the Orc sneered without responding before whipping around, taking a blow from Faleen’s sword that ricocheted off his armour, and decapitating one of the guards in a clean stroke. 

“He’s an assassin!” Faleen stepped back, her hair coming undone, and wiped her forehead. Legate Emmanuel swooped in, trying to take the killer from behind, but he was met with a powerful backfist that almost definitely broke his jaw and hurled him down the stairs where he left a scarlet trail and landed in a crumpled heap. Not one to leave things unfinished, the Orc pursued him, and as he tried to struggle to his feet, the Imperial found a blade in his heart. 

Faleen rebounded, jumping forth with a leaping strike, and she was tossed aside with a stroke that left a scar in her steel plates. She regained her balance quickly, but despite his size, the Orc was fast, and she had to roll to avoid a swing that would have cut her head off. The remaining guard closed in with a war axe, and for a moment it almost seemed like they might have gained the upper hand as the Orc turned to defend himself and Faleen was able to land a cut on the back of his neck, even though it wasn’t deep. But then he whipped about and his gauntlets cracked across her face and she dropped and the guard, realizing his fate, tried to flee, but he was no match for the brutality of the Dark Brotherhood and a vertical split toppled the two halves of his body, separating right from left, and when Faleen stood, blood gushing from a busted nose, he sighed and rubbed his wrist.

“You’re tough. I admire that, I really do. So I’ll make this quick.”

Then he gathered all his strength and impaled her straight through, and let her carcass fall from his weapon. 

All the hope Anton had dissolved in that moment. It was over, in mere minutes, it was all over. 

And the assassin had not forgotten about his true quarry. He approached the Mournful Throne with death in his bones, and grabbed Anton by the collar, ignoring his useless attempts to pry his grasp off. “Can’t let you get away now. Loose ends and all that.”


	58. Fifty-Eight

Damn it, Hekatah thought to herself, rising from her cot slowly. How dare the Night Mother speak to her again! How dare she!

“Oh, you’re up,” said Yolskja, and Hekatah looked down to see the Nord sitting on the floor holding her hands over a fire. “It’s like, noon.”

“No, I’ve been awake. You weren’t here when I got up at first. I didn’t sleep well, so I’ve just sort of been laying here,” Hekatah groaned. “The fucking- corpse bitch kept talking to me.”

Yolskja raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What did she say?”

“I don’t remember…” Hekatah shook her head. “I don’t remember at all. I was just so pissed off- I was trying to sleep, and I don’t want anything to do with that rotting cunt anyway! What gives her the right to be in my head! I didn’t want this! I never wanted this! The Night Mother did nothing for us! She let us suffer and then she and her- her fetching pet show up and demand I do shit for them, and!”

Yolskja’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I know this has been difficult...I’m sure Astrid would be proud of the way you’ve handled it.”

“Would she? Should I have accepted the contract at all?”

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To get revenge for your family?” Yolskja moved closer to the fire. “And you said so yourself, a contract like this...we’ll be rolling in wealth, with all kinds of people seeking us out for jobs. Astrid would have done the same thing.”

“I hope so.” Hekatah wrung her hands. “I- when we were staying at the inn after we visited Dad- I was talking to Arnbjorn...and I told him that even though Astrid’s not here anymore, she’s still watching us and we can still make her happy...and I hope that I was right. I know she didn’t want the Night Mother here- the Old Ways were such bullshit, and we never got assistance from that stupid hag...so I hope she isn’t upset with me…I haven’t abandoned her, Yolskja. I promise I haven’t but...I just want to do what’s best. Do you think she would be mad at me?”

“No, I don’t think she would be. You’re doing your best to keep us afloat…” 

“I miss her, Yolskja. I miss her so much…I loved her so much.”

“I know, sunshine. I know.” Yolskja stood and walked over to Hekatah, and gently caressed her face. “Look, I was friends with Astrid. And even though you never got very close with her, she liked you. I don’t think she would ever be upset at you for trying to follow in her footsteps and take care of the Dark Brotherhood. You’re doing what you can.”

The Dunmer’s skin turned pink and warm beneath Yolskja’s palm. “Arnbjorn said the same…”

“Then you know it’s true.”

Hekatah put her hand over Yolskja’s. “Where is he? I hope he’s not heard any of this…”

“He’s out for a walk.” Yolskja smiled. “Your secret is safe with me. I’m gonna tidy up a bit around here. How about you go find yourself something to eat and relax a little, okay?”

“Yeah...sounds good.” 

The Elf stood up and left for the kitchen, and when she was almost certainly out of earshot of the Dragonborn, she heard a harsh voice from the shadows. 

“Heretic! Heretic and debaser! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” 

Then in a blur of red and black, the tiny form shot forth and Hekatah felt her lungs expel air involuntarily as a small, thin blade pierced her gut. “Oh!”

“Traitor! Cicero knew! He knew! It was only a matter of time…”

Hekatah staggered backwards, holding her side where she had been stabbed and imbuing the deep wound with Restoration. “You damn clown! Damn it! What the fuck?!”

“Cicero had hoped you would open your mind! But he knew, he knew- your obsession with that harlot Astrid would blind you! And now you must pay!!”

“Fuck- damn you, damn you! How dare you!!” 

With a laugh, Cicero swept in again, and in the nick of time Hekatah pulled a dagger from a sheath on her thigh to protect herself. “Oooh, prepared, how prepared! A blade hidden in your pajamas~! Surely then, you too knew this was coming?”

“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you,” Hekatah hissed, deflecting blows that came as fast and furious as a swarm of bee stings. “You come into my home, you demand we change our ways, and you insult our dead leader! You entitled s’wit!”

The clown jumped towards her and she stepped aside, letting him bury his weapon in the wall, and as he tried to pull it loose she plunged her own dagger between his ribs. 

“Cheap shot!” Cicero yelped. She didn’t have time to reply- in revenge for his injury he sucker-punched her, and as she doubled over his knee connected with her temple, forcing her to kneel. She scrambled backwards, half-expecting him to continue the unarmed assault, but instead he yanked his ebony knife free and gave her just a second more to regroup. 

It hardly mattered. He leapt again, like a frantic ape, and despite his small stature the impact sent them both to the floor. She gripped his wrists, holding him back only inches away from her heart, and as he pressed down she pushed back, locking them in a frantic shoving match that would have dire consequences for whoever lost. 

Cicero’s knife crept closer and closer to her flesh, and she felt herself beginning to panic as a wild grin spread across his unnaturally pallid face. “Stab you, stab you, stab you!”

“Damn it! By the Three- get OFF!” She contorted her body and tried to kick him away, but he wiggled just enough to avoid the strike and the black tip of his dagger broke through the cloth of her robe.

“Is this the best the Listener can do?”

“You WISH!” Hekatah gritted her teeth and gathered her strength for one last attempt to free herself, and then-

“FUS! RO!”

The Shout tossed the grappling assassins and instinctively Cicero released his quarry. Hekatah hit the ground and Cicero hit the wall, and they lay there, breathless, as Yolskja stormed into the room. Without question- without hesitation- the flaming-haired Nord raised her sword over her head and prepared to bring it down on the panting, seemingly stunned Imperial. But before she could kill him, the life sprang back into his body, and he heaved upwards, stabbing her several times in the stomach, and promptly fleeing, clutching the wound Hekatah had left as he ran. 

Hekatah sat up. “Yolskja! Yolskja- oh, gods-!”

“Stupid clown,” the words were spoken through her teeth. “Oh, that hurts…”

“It’s okay, I can help- just hold still…” Golden light swirled around the Dunmer’s fingers, entering the wounds and soothing them slowly. “It’s okay. I can help…”

“Ah…” Yolskja exhaled contentedly. “Oh, that does feel better...thank you, sunshine. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “No, he got me in the same place he got you, but I fixed it. I’m fine now.”

“Good, good...what happened? What the fuck is going on?!”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Please let me focus on healing you right now.”

Yolskja leaned her head back against the wall, letting Hekatah work her magic, but they only got a moment of peace before they heard the Black Door slam against the wall, and Arnbjorn stalked into the room, his whole body shaking.

“Explain. Now.” He snapped. “I just saw that witless fool run past me with blood on his clothes. Are you two okay?”

“Obviously not. Hekatah isn’t healing me for fun.”

“I- may have said some things about the Night Mother. Some things that were, um, less than respectful. He tried to kill me. Yolskja stepped in and almost got him, but he ran off.”

Almost immediately she regretted telling him. His features darkened with rage and hatred, and she saw him tense. “I see. Thanks for telling me. I’ll be right back.”

“Arnbjorn!” Hekatah called out for him, but he was gone, charging out of the Sanctuary like a human tornado. “Oh, no, no, no, I have to- but Yolskja-you’re still hurt...”

“I think I can take it from here…” Yolskja grunted. “You go stop him...based on what Cicero pulled here, I think he’s gonna need to come back.”

“There’s potions next to me robes. Make sure you’re healed all proper, okay? I’ll…” She trailed off as she stood, and then just like Arnbjorn, she was gone. 

The wolf was out of sight when she got outside, but the tracks he left behind were obvious, and more obvious was the fact that he had entered his Beast Form. She would never catch up to him on her own- but with Shadowmere…

The horselike creature was raring to go, nostrils flaring and hooves pawing at the ground. Hekatah had no sooner mounted it than it took off in the direction Arnbjorn had gone, blazing a trail through the thick Dawnstar snow, with her foot barely in the stirrups. Time was a blur as they pursued him and Cicero, and Hekatah was not sure how many days or nights passed, or if they passed at all. Her mind was clouded with fear and rage, and her blood was infused with ferocity.

She finally came up beside Arnbjorn just outside the ruins of their former home, feeling as if the trip had not taken nearly as long as it should have- she would have wondered if it was because of Shadowmere’s unearthly ability, but she was far too concerned about him to dwell on the strange timeline for long. His Beast Form had long since faded, but his fury had not. 

“Arnbjorn!”

He looked over his shoulder, and sighed deeply, and she noticed blood on his hands. “Hekatah...should’ve figured you’d follow me. I got him for a second, but he squirmed free- don’t worry, it’s not my blood. He’s in the old Sanctuary- I just stopped to catch my breath. Come on. We’ll kill him.”

She dismounted, and followed him inside. The prospect of facing another battle there terrified her, but she refused to let Cicero hurt anyone else. The Black Door closed behind them, echoing throughout the lonely burnt remains, and Arnbjorn stepped forward, his back to Hekatah. 

“He’s here. I can smell him…let’s get him.”

But she found herself unable to move. She had noticed something off about the large Nord. He had tried to hide it from her, but there was a gash along his body, and his jaw was clenched in pain. 

The terror burrowed deeper into her bones. Arnbjorn fighting against Cicero...against the man who had pulled off a surprise attack on both her and Yolskja...the injuries he could inflict with that little dagger...it all came together in her mind, like pieces to a puzzle that fell into the shape of Arnbjorn lying dead at Cicero’s feet, gone, just like Astrid, and a chill beyond that of Skyrim’s climate penetrated her skin. “Hey, Arn?”

“Yeah?”

“Wh...what would you say if I told you to let me face him by meself?”

“I’d call you an idiot and come with you anyway. Going against him one-on-one would be a fool’s errand.”

“I see. Then…” A red glow bloomed on her fingertips. “I’m really, really sorry about this.”


	59. Fifty-Nine

The spell worked as finely as it had in Morrowind for Neloth and in the Jarl’s longhouse for Hekatah. Arnbjorn barely knew what had hit him before he fell heavily, first to his knees, and then to the floor, where he lay motionless and facedown. She crouched beside him, carefully and tenderly closing the wound Cicero had inflicted.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’ll be back in just a moment. Please don’t be upset. It will only be a few minutes.”

She knew what she had done was stupid. She knew Cicero was stronger than her. But she had already lost enough, and she would not let Cicero lay a hand on anyone else, not while she was alive. In battle, she had an advantage Arnbjorn did not. She could heal herself. 

She just hoped that would be enough.

Cicero was waiting for her. There was no need to attempt an ambush. He stood in the rubble of the parlor, his weapon in hand, and when he laid eyes on her he grinned. 

“So, you knew your stupid wolf wouldn’t be enough to beat cunning Cicero, and chose to face him yourself, all by your lonesome.” He cackled. “How noble! How brave! How...romantic!”

She gripped the hilt of her blade so tightly her deep gray knuckles turned white. He was trying to get under her skin, and she knew that, but that didn’t stop it from working. “I’m going to kill you now. It’s going to hurt.”

“Oh? The Listener-!”

She cut him off, attacking him with that one singular dagger she had hidden away. It ripped through his velvet clothes, but did not reach his flesh, and he laughed again.

“Straight to the point, eh? Get it? Point? Ha ha ha!” He pranced away, taunting her, waiting to the very last moment to dodge around her slashes and stabs. “Oh, very good, very good! The Listener might have a bit more fight in her than Cicero expected!”

All she had going for her was that knife. As much as she wanted to- as great as the urge was to blast him away with a Fireball- she found herself unable to form any sort of flame, and the thought of setting the remnants of the Sanctuary alight once again made her feel ill. Internally, she cursed herself for only dealing with one element. 

But even so, she was no novice with the blade, and with the need to protect Arnbjorn and avenge Yolskja’s pain pumping through her veins, she pressed forth against the jester.

If she could get him to hold still- get her hands on his body- she could contort him the way she had contorted Jarl Siddgeir, the way her grandfather had contorted his enemies. Perhaps Cicero knew this- perhaps there was more to his knowledge of his assailant than she had anticipated. He twisted and turned, narrowly shirking the attacks as they ripped through his tunic and scraps of cloth fluttered to the ground, but not because he was faltering. He was mocking her, letting her get too close, and then taking her victory away. He wasn’t taking her seriously- she would punish him thoroughly for that. 

His irritating, maddening laughter reverberated throughout the Sanctuary. “Who’s the fool now? Who is it? Me, the poor, innocent Keeper? Or you, the treacherous Listener who thinks she can slay sly Cicero?” 

She didn’t answer. All her focus was on him. A person who fought like her- the same quickness, the same strategy- that angered her. How dare he! How dare he be similar to her!

“What happened to that stupid sheepdog?” Cicero jeered. “I know I heard him! Did he show you? Did he show you what the Fool of Hearts did? I bet he didn’t!”

She seethed, and finally a blow landed in Cicero’s shoulder. “You truly are a fool…! I can heal whatever you do! You can’t hurt him as long as I’m around!”

“We shall see, won’t we!” Cicero returned the favour and she hissed in pain. “Will you be able to heal what Cicero does to _you?_”

In mere seconds, the tables had turned, and Cicero became the aggressor, ebony clashing against glass, sending sparks across the room, forcing her back, screaming with glee as she deflected strike after strike, teasing her, ridiculing her, asking her why she didn’t fix her shoulder, why didn’t she seal his lips closed, was she lying, perhaps? And she said nothing, she had no retort, just furiously defending herself against his fanaticism as best she could. 

“Watch your step!” he cawed, and she realized too late she had paid no mind to her surroundings as her footing slipped, and she almost fell into the bubbling pool that remained clouded with debris. Cicero’s hand closed around her collar, just before she hit the water, but it was not an act of kindness. He held her there, so close to going under that she could feel wetness creeping through her thick hair up against her scalp. “The Listener likes fire, doesn’t she?”

Still she said nothing, gears turning in her head as she decided on her next move, and Cicero’s grin widened to proportions even she found unnatural. 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if she drowned? How ironic! Ha ha! Oh, don’t worry- your pet will meet an ironic fate, too!”

He made to push her under, and she made her decision. The serrated edge of her razor-sharp dagger cut into his skin at the wrist. He yelped, and she dug deeper, until he released her and she plunged beneath the waves. 

Diluted red swirled about her as she sank. Did it stem from her or him? She wasn’t sure. Her wound stung, but she had bought herself time. Gilded Restoration mingled with the pinkish whirlpools, and she reached for the surface. Cicero had fallen away, his hand almost completely severed, and he scowled as he used shreds of his sweater to stop the blood flow. 

“Take...that…” she gasped, hanging from the side and coughing. “Just bleed out!”

She hauled herself out, but as she pulled herself onto land, she felt something brush her legs. “What the fuck…?”

Something- no, someone- lurked in the depths. 

Her eyes lingered on the murky abyss. The sounds she had heard when she was in Falkreath last...could it have been…?

She was only distracted for a second. But a second was all it took. 

With horror, the unknown third resident watched as Cicero redoubled his efforts, irate with pain, and with the hand that remained attached he grasped the Listener by her neck. “That hurt poor Cicero! Do it again! Do it again!”

“If...you insist…” She raised her blade and brought it down on his arm, but before metal met man, he slammed her down against a pile of rubble.

Get up, get up, the cryptic being urged her. The things she had done- they were horrible, and it was justified to let her die. But she didn’t move, and the creature felt his pulse pick up. Cicero reached for his dagger, and she made no attempt to defend herself, and a guttural, crocodilian roar split the air. The jester turned, his eyes growing wide, but he never had a chance. Black scales wet and glistening, a piercing blue gaze, and broken horns were the last things he saw as jaws clamped around his leg and dragged him back towards the pool. 

Oh, Cicero tried to fight back. He scratched and stabbed and flailed. But he was not meant to fight underwater, and his body was torn apart in moments, flooding their surroundings with a dissolving scarlet bloom, scattering bits of muscle and fat and tendrils and sinew in a feast that would have made slaughterfish go crazy. His head was removed from his neck, his arms ripped from his shoulders, until there was nothing left to destroy, and the clown was reduced to floating shreds. 

“That’ll...teach you,” panted Spikes-in-Shadows. “Hekatah…”

She remained where she had been thrown, the bricks stained a dark crimson, and he feared the worst when he kneeled beside her, lightly cuffing the side of her head. “C’mon, wake up…”

Her eyes fluttered open and locked onto him. “Who…?”

He held his breath. “You recognize me. It hasn’t been that long…” 

“Spikes...? But your eyes…”

“Looking better, aren’t they? And so are you, come to think of it. Now tell me- who was that I just killed to save your ass?”

“You...gods. Spikes, I’m...I’m so sorry. About...everything.”

“We can talk about that later. Who was that?”

“Clown…” She rubbed the back of her head. “Give me a moment...think I got a bit of a concussion...”

“Oh…”

He waited a moment for her to treat herself. She sat up when she was finished, careful not to move too much. 

“I think- that should take care of the immediate damage. I remember everything, so I don’t think I got hurt too bad. It- wasn’t too long, was it? That I was out?”

“Just a couple of seconds.”

“Okay...then it should be fine. Still...me head hurts.” Her hand came away stained red. “Oh, Azura. Glad I closed that, then…uh, what was I saying?”

“The fuckin’- clown thing. Who was that?”

“Uhhhh...Cicero. He’s the Keeper of the Night Mother...I- he tried to kill me, and Arnbjorn lost it. He chased him, and I followed Arnbjorn…”

“The fuck’s a Night Mother? And where is Arnbjorn, anyway?” 

As soon as he had spoken, a firm grip on his shirt picked him up from behind, leaving him dangling like a naughty kitten. “Um...I think I found him.”


	60. Sixty

“You have five seconds to explain what you’re doing on top of her, and why you’re here at all.”

Spikes inhaled deeply. “Well-I’ve-been-coming-here-to-pay-respects-for-a-while-now-and-while-I-was-here-I-heard-you-guys-come-in-and-so-I-hid-in-the-pond-and-”

“Time’s up.” There was no humour or mercy in Arnbjorn’s voice. He was not joking. He threw Spikes across the room uncaringly. Spikes bounced along the floor before skidding to a halt and raised his head to see Arnbjorn crouched beside Hekatah with a hand on her shoulder and a disgustingly gentle expression, and her resting her hand on his, staring up at him in an enamoured way that made Spikes nauseous. 

“Arnbjorn, it’s okay- you can relax. He wasn’t hurting me. Spikes...he saved me life. He killed Cicero. It’s okay. Everything is okay.” She almost sounded breathless.

“So you’re alright, then?”

“Yes, I hit me head pretty hard at one point but I think I’m okay.”

“Do you remember everything? Your name, the date, all that?”

“Yes. Spikes said I was unconscious for a couple of seconds, but other than a headache and feeling a little woozy, I feel fine. I think I was able to heal meself quickly enough to stop any big issues.”

“Good. Good.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Hekatah broke eye contact.

“I’m sorry. For- fighting him by meself.”

“What you did was stupid. Really, really stupid. You could have died. You almost died.”

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt again…I knew it was dumb, but I just...I couldn’t bear it if you had gotten all shredded up.”

“And you were willing to get yourself killed over that.”

She nodded, and Arnbjorn sighed. 

“Damn you.” He pulled her against himself with one arm, tightly, in a gesture that was probably meant as a hug, and then wrapped the other around her waist, and after several painfully long seconds Spikes cleared his throat uncomfortably. Arnbjorn glared at him. “What?”

“Um…are we, like, cool now?”

Hekatah turned her blushing face towards the Argonian. “Spikes...I’m so sorry. I should never have doubted you…as if being a vampire would have changed your personality…I can’t apologize enough for everything I said and did.”

“Yeah, no, that was all pretty shitty of you.”

“You could have let me die here. I don’t think anyone could have blamed you for that, after...everything. And you still decided to save me life. And probably Arnbjorn’s too.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hekatah looked up at the lycanthrope, though she had made no effort to pull away from him. “Arnbjorn? Are you gonna say anything?”

He pulled her even closer, and Spikes saw her smile. “Hmph. I guess you did something good. Thanks, I suppose. Crazy jester finally met his match, am I right?” 

“So you forgive me, then? Even though I didn’t really do anything wrong...”

Arnbjorn snorted. “Well, I guess- if things hadn’t happened the way they did, you wouldn’t have been here to help us out.”

“Cool.” Spikes stood up, shoved his hands into his pockets and shook himself, sending droplets of water flying about. “I’ll be generous and forgive you too. That doesn’t mean I don’t expect you to eat me, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t make me regret saving you two.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He finally let go of the Dark Elf. “You’re absolutely soaking, both of you. You’re gonna freeze to death. Hekatah, you should use that magic of yours to dry off.”

Spikes sat down on another pile of rubble. “How are Babette and Yolskja?”

“They’re fine. They miss you,” said Hekatah. “Krogan is doing well, too, not that you asked.”

“He did try to kill me.”

“Yeah…”

“The Guild has been pissed at you.”

“Yeah...we noticed…” Hekatah lowered her gaze. “I mean...I dunno. We were all really fucked up. We shouldn’t have let our emotions get the best of us…”

“No, it was really evil of you all.” Spikes shifted so they could see his slowly regrowing spines. “I broke those off to pay for everyone’s deaths and wounds. I felt bad about hiding, you know. You didn’t have to make it worse.”

Arnbjorn looked away, and Hekatah’s gaze lowered further. 

“I mean, they’ll grow back. But you know, I think you deserve to feel a little guilty over what you did. I heard Yolskja visited the Guild- I’m sure Faedryl gave her the run-down on what happened to me, so I won’t repeat it, but I think I have the right to hold it over your head a little.”

The Dunmer was fixated on her robes. “Yeah...that’s fair…”

“I mean that was mostly me and Krogan,” Arnbjorn admitted. “I think Hekatah was more upset than she was angry- she was just sitting there crying. I would’ve mauled you though, that’s true.”

“Well, she had that thing about the whole vampire situation. And, um, about that- the guy who forced me into it...he’s dead now. Juno and I killed him. And, as you can see...I got cured. So you don’t have to be afraid of me now.”

“I’m sorry. I got so caught up in...my fear of Molag Bal...I forgot to think about you as a person.”

“Now you’re not just saying that so I’ll trust you and then you can kill me with that sword of yours, right?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to trust us right now.”

“I don’t like the way you’re avoiding the question about stabbing me…”

“I’m still a little out of it. I won’t stab you.”

“Because you’re out of it?”

“No!”

Arnbjorn examined her. “If you hurt your head, we probably shouldn’t go back home right away. You should rest, just in case.”

“You’re right…” Hekatah rose shakily. “I do feel a bit worn out…”

“I have a small camp a few minutes away from here, if you trust me enough to stay there.” 

“If you try anything, I’ll rip you apart,” Arnbjorn assured him. “Show us the way.”

Spikes picked up Cicero’s fallen dagger and led his companions to an enclave in the forests where he had set up. It was becoming part of the ecosystem, with the strange merge of man-made and natural elements that was such a common sight in the Hold. “I’ve been coming here more often since I got cured, so I’ve just been leaving it up. Take the bedroll if you want- I like the moistness of the dirt.”

“Thanks…” Hekatah looked as if she wanted to argue, perhaps feeling that she didn’t deserve the kindness, but instead laid down and closed her eyes. Arnbjorn sat down beside her, and Spikes across from Arnbjorn. 

Spikes wrapped his tail around his feet, and they remained in silence for some time, before he finally decided to try and talk with the irritable man. “So, Arnbjorn.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind if I visited the Brotherhood with you? Even if I don’t come back, I’d like to at least see Babette and Yolskja again.”

“I guess I can tolerate that. Just don’t make me regret it.”

The Argonian would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. “You’re very rude to me considering I saved your new girlfriend’s life.”

Arnbjorn bristled. “Excuse me?”

“I saw the way you looked at her. It was like she was Astrid.”

The werewolf flashed his fangs. “She’s not Astrid.”

“But the way you treated her…”

“Most of the Brotherhood is dead. Forgive me for keeping a closer eye on the ones that are left, especially when they seem to be trying to get themselves killed. And even if- even if I did see her that way, which I don’t, and she saw me that way, which she doesn’t, that wouldn’t make her Astrid.”

“But-!”

Arnbjorn leaned towards him with a glint in his eyes and his hand splayed in a manner that very clearly displayed his claws. “Do you want to die?”

“Jeez...calm down.” Spikes inched away from Arnbjorn a little. “So uh, where were you? During all that?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“You’re difficult to make conversation with.”

“I don’t trust you yet.”

“I saved Hekatah’s life!”

“Keep doing stuff like that and I’ll be nicer.”

“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Spikes shook his head. “So what’s the Brotherhood been up to?”

“Not telling you.”

“Gods. You’re such a pain in the ass.”

Arnbjorn hesitated. “We’re in Dawnstar now. Found out about an old Sanctuary there. I won’t let you in, but I’ll let Yolskja and Babette know you want to see them. And I guess I can put up with you enough to take you there.”

Spikes stretched out on the soft ground with a deep, deep sigh. “Well, that’s a start, I suppose.”


	61. Sixty-One

“What can we do?” Babette sank her fangs into her lower lip. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone? Any at all?”

“None. I didn’t expect…” The Nord ran her hand through her unkempt, wild red hair. “I thought…maybe...no...I can’t even think...I’ve been in such a state for days...”

Krogan scoffed. “Nevermind them right now. How are your wounds?” 

“How can you say that? We have no idea what happened to them! They could be dead!” Yolskja’s voice trembled uncharacteristically. “I hope they’re not dead...they weren’t supposed to be gone this long! I thought they would come right back…”

“Have you met Arnbjorn?” argued Krogan. “He’ll be so pissed that fool tried to off Hekatah, he’ll practically be invincible. He’s probably just sleeping off eating that whole jester.”

“Krogan’s right, Arnbjorn is pretty hard to put down. But still...I can’t help but feel like we should at least try…” Babette’s brow furrowed.

Krogan shook his head. “It’s useless. It’s snowed. Any tracks they might have left are gone, and it looks like Hekatah took Shadowmere.”

Yolskja bit into her knuckles, drawing blood. “It’s been days. I tried to go out and find them when they didn’t come home within a few hours, but…I didn’t want to go too far and end up missing them when they came back. But I haven’t heard anything...”

“We’ll figure something out. I’m sure they’re fine. But your injuries…” Krogan prodded her side. 

She slapped his hand away. “It’s fine! Hekatah got most of it before she went after Arnbjorn.”

“Look, Yolskja, after everything we’ve been through, I don’t think some five foot moron is gonna be the thing that does them in. They killed all of the Companions, for Malacath’s sake.”

“I know but…what was that? Was that the Door?” Yolskja shot to her feet, knocking over her chair. “Arnbjorn? Hekatah??”

She rushed out of the room, followed by Krogan and Babette, and almost collided with the hulking form of their resident werewolf. “Arnbjorn! Are you alright? Where’s Hekatah? Is she okay? What happened? Why were you gone so long? Is Hekatah with you?”

He shook out his long white hair with an utterly sour expression on his face. There were rips in his clothes, but despite his disgruntled stature and sullen countenance, he seemed no worse than when he had left. “You would not believe how fast that fucking clown was.”

“Where’s Hekatah? She’s alive, right?”

“Talos above. Yes, she’s fine. She’s outside. Both of us are fine. She had a bit of a concussion but she took some time to heal it and rest and she’s good as new.”

“Why is she outside?”

Arnbjorn snarled and clenched his fists. “Come and fucking see.”

He turned and stalked right back out.

“He seems real mad about something,” Krogan commented. “I guess we might as well go find out.”

They followed Arnbjorn. Standing a small distance away from the Sanctuary was Hekatah, wrapped in Arnbjorn’s fur cloak, still in her pajamas and obviously very cold, and beside her was a familiar, dark-scaled Argonian with slowly regrowing spines lining his back.

“Oh, you son of a bitch, Arnbjorn-!” Krogan’s hands went for his greatsword, and in a flash he had become just as sour and bitter as the Nord. “Why is he here!? Answer me before I cut his head off.”

Babette covered her mouth. “Spikes? But…”

The Argonian waved. “Hey. Please don’t kill me. Please put the sword away.”

“Yolskja, I’m sorry,” Hekatah chose to ignore the tensions. “Cicero got all the way to the old Sanctuary before we caught up to him. I didn’t think we’d end up so far...I know you must have been worried.”

“Worried? Are you kidding me? I was scared out of my mind!” Yolskja grabbed her in a bone-crushing embrace. “I thought you were dead!”

“Sorry,” Hekatah squeaked again. “I’m okay. Arnbjorn is okay too.”

Yolskja hugged her tighter. “Well, I figured he would be fine. I know you wouldn’t let anything happen to him. But you! I was so, so afraid!”

“You’re suffocating me…”

“Sorry...so, um…”

“Why’s the fucking traitor here?” Krogan interrupted, followed by a repetition of his earlier threat. “Answer me before I cut his head off.”

Arnbjorn’s scowl deepened. “Look, I don’t like it either, but he saved Hekatah’s life.”

“What happened? Why didn’t you do anything?” Krogan shot back.

Arnbjorn bared his teeth. “Mind your own damn business.”

“No, Arn...we should...you know that spell Neloth used on you two?”

Glowering, Krogan strode over and lifted Hekatah by her underarms to look her in the eyes. “Hekatah. Tell me you didn’t knock him out to fight Cicero alone.”

“Cicero cut him up. I can heal meself in the middle of a fight. He can’t.”

“Then how come the lizard had to save you?”

Spikes rubbed his neck. “It...was kind of an unfortunate series of coincidences…he probably would have died without me helping, cause she’d cut off his hand, but he would have killed her first.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“He tried to drown me,” said Hekatah. “I pretty much severed his hand, he dropped me into the pool, I guess I almost landed on Spikes, and then that distracted me enough for the dumbass to grab me.”

“So I ripped him apart,” Spikes added. “And then Arnbjorn tried to kill me.”

“I did not, I only said I would if you didn’t explain yourself.”

Krogan grumbled. “I wish you had. So, you...spineless reptile...why did you think you’d be welcome back here?”

“I don’t,” Spikes leaned backwards, holding himself up with his tail. “But I figured since I did save their asses, the least Hekatah and Arnbjorn could do for me is let me see Yolskja and Babette. How have you been doing?”

Babette approached him, and for once the little vampire had a gentle expression that wasn’t accented by mischief. “It’s so good to see you again.”

She stopped just in front of him, and tilted her head back to examine his face. “You got cured.”

“I did. Juno and I went and wiped out the guy who made me a vampire, and then I got rid of that shit.”

“Are you happier without it?”

“Wouldn’t have gotten cured otherwise.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t because of…” she trailed off, her bright orange eyes drifting towards Hekatah. 

“Nah.” Spikes shook his head. “I...see that you’re all doing...you know, better than you were the last time we met.”

His gaze travelled over Arnbjorn, and his faint Glasgow smile, and the scar over his eye, and the scratch on Hekatah’s lower lip and across her nose, and he could only imagine what the marks on their bodies looked like, and he shuddered. “Much...better.”

“Yeah, we’re alright,” Yolskja didn’t quite look at him. “Um...do you want to come inside?”

“I don’t want him knowing the password,” snapped Krogan. 

“He doesn’t have to. I’ll open the Door and then you can let him in. Please, Krogan. I just want to be able to talk to him.”

“Fine. But if he even looks at anyone wrong, I’m skinning him.”


	62. Sixty-Two

The longer Krogan watched Spikes chatting and laughing with the other members, the deeper his resentment grew. Babette and Yolskja were lively as ever, seemingly reveling in the reunion. Hekatah sat slightly farther away, closed in on herself, but even she had a slight smile on her lips. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, the Orc saw that Arnbjorn was no more pleased than he, standing against the wall with his arms crossed tightly and his jaw set.

“You don’t trust him either, huh?” he murmured in a low voice. Arnbjorn sneered. 

“It’s not that.”

“You do trust him?”

“I…” he sighed. “It’s true that I think he should have fought with the rest of us. But...had he chosen to do that, he probably would have died, and Hekatah and I would be dead in a ditch in Falkreath right now.”

A deep rumble vibrated within Krogan’s throat. “I can’t believe…that idiot.”

“I don’t blame her. I would have fought him alone too if she’d given me the chance. I...was trying to think up a way to stop her, actually. When she snuck up on me. But…” Arnbjorn’s hand curled into a fist. “It’s not that I don’t think Spikes is trustworthy. I think if he had wanted us dead...he’d have let us die. He just...said some stuff. And I’m pissed at him for that.”

Krogan leaned back in his chair. “What’s that?”

“Um…well…” The werewolf turned his head away from Krogan. “It was about Hekatah…”

“What was it? Spit it out already.”

“He said I treated her like she was Astrid.”

“Oh, my gods.” The urge to strangle Arnbjorn rose up in his chest. “You moron.”

“It’s not like that. For either of us. But…”

“Arnbjorn.”

“Huh?”

“Please back away from me. Before I choke you out.”

Arnbjorn complied, but the genuine confusion on his face only made Krogan want to beat some sense into him even more.

“Maybe that damn reptile shouldn’t have phrased it that way. But you’re an idiot if you don’t think there’s something between you and her.”

“I…” His shoulders slumped. “Fine. Look, I- she’s pretty, and she’s a damn good assassin. But I’m married to Astrid. I was married to Astrid.”

“Astrid’s gone.”

Arnbjorn bristled. 

“And if she could see your dumb asses skirting around each other, I think she’d come back just to tell you to get your shit together.” Krogan glanced at the others to make sure they hadn’t overheard anything, even though they were all the way across the room. “Hekatah’s had a thing for you for almost two years now. Astrid loved you. And Astrid cared about her. I don’t think she would be upset or betrayed by you letting yourself have a little happiness with each other. Plus, between the two of us? I’d rather see you with her than some random guy from like, Riften or whatever.”

“It has nothing to do with what you would rather see. This isn’t the First Era. I don’t need your _blessing_.”

“If you’re going to be a jerk, she might end up with Spikes or someone; they’ve been looking mighty friendly all of a sudden...who knows?”

Arnbjorn paused. “If...that would be what she wanted, fine. If it made her happy...I’m not a possessive person like that. I wasn’t with my beautiful wife, either.”

“You sappy idiot. Look, I’m just saying you should approach her about things.”

“I’ll do that on my own time. If she’s...had feelings for me for two years, I don’t think she’ll give up that fast.”

“It’s rude to keep her waiting.”

“You’re putting so much emphasis on this all of a sudden…”

Krogan groaned. “I didn’t think you’d be willing to acknowledge the way you feel about her so quickly.”

“I...no, I’ve…” Arnbjorn rubbed his own shoulder. “She’s sweet. She’s cute. She’s earnest...and I like being around her, and I would do anything to keep her safe. I just...it’s hard. To consider another relationship when a year ago I wouldn’t have even glanced at her or anyone else but Astrid that way.”

“I just think you should do something. She adores you. It’s obvious even in the way she looks at you. You’d make her life if you’d just give her the truth.”

“Maybe...after we finish this contract...in celebration. Maybe then.”

“Yeah, fine. I’ll hold you to that, though…”

“Feel free.” Arnbjorn pulled up a chair and sat down beside Krogan, and began listening in on the conversation across the room.

“So...Spikes…” Hekatah was saying. “What are your plans now? Since…”

Spikes eyed her with some kind of soft derision. “Since you guys went and fucked everything up? I dunno.”

She avoided his bright blue stare and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I really am...sorry.”

“No, I know. And I forgive you. But that doesn’t mean it’s all back to normal. Plus, I don’t think Krogan would want me back.”

That was true. Although Arnbjorn had it in his heart to accept the Argonian, the bitter Orsimer would almost certainly reject him. And there was another, highly pressing issue too. 

“What would he do if he found out…” Krogan mumbled under his breath, as if he was in tune with Arnbjorn’s thoughts. 

Arnbjorn finished for him. “About what Hekatah and I did to the Companions?”

“He wouldn’t be thrilled, since his sister was apparently so devastated…”

“Hekatah and I are stupid sometimes, but we aren’t dumb enough to tell him, if that’s what you’re asking about.”

“But we can’t have him back if we can’t tell him something so vital…”

“Like you’d want him in the Family again anyway.”

Krogan sideyed his friend. “Do you?”

“I told you,” said Arnbjorn. “If not for him, we would have lost Hekatah. And I couldn’t stand that...I’ve had dreams about it.”

“You wouldn’t know. You’d be dead too.”

“I just think if he was trying to get us killed he would have let the crazy jester finish her off and come for me.”

“You don’t think maybe he was trying to get us all in one place?”

“You’re paranoid.”

Krogan scoffed. “You’re just entirely too trusting of that lizard.”

“It’s not worth arguing over. He’s not even gonna stick around.”

“Good. I’ll rip off his tail and strangle him with it if he does.”

“That’s why he’s not gonna stick around…”

“Good.”

They fell silent, a brooding cloud hovering over Krogan, and watched the Family from afar, for hours and hours, until Spikes finally stood up. 

“So, you’ve made up your mind, then?” asked Babette. Krogan gripped the seat of his chair tightly. 

Spikes nodded. “I...I love you guys. A lot. And I’ll come see you sometimes. But I think it’s best if I stay away from...officially coming back for now. I’ll go back to the Guild. Try and patch things up between us and you. Talk to Fae.”

Babette bit her lip. “I...see. Well, it was an unexpected, but welcome surprise to see you again. We- or…”

She shot a glare at Krogan. “Most of us will be happy for you to stop by anytime, okay?”

“Of course. Stay safe.” He hugged Babette, Yolskja and Hekatah, and Krogan’s grip cracked the wood of his seat, and then awkwardly walked over to Arnbjorn and the Orc. “So, um…”

“Get lost,” Krogan snapped.

Arnbjorn stretched his hand out, and Spikes took it reluctantly. “Take care, you scaley bastard.”

“Well, at least one of you warmed up. I’ll see you around.” He lowered his voice with a conspiratorial smile. “And for Sithis’ sake, make a move on Hekatah, won’t you?”


	63. Sixty-Three

Hekatah shifted her bag over her shoulder and pulled her mask over her nose. She had not said anything all morning. 

“Balagog gro-Nolob,” Krogan reminded her. “Nightgate Inn, not too far from here. You probably ought to hide the body somehow...and remember, you’re going to need his identity marker.”

She nodded and raised her hood. 

“Are you okay?” Arnbjorn asked her, his brow knitted. She nodded again. “Are you sure? You haven’t spoken. At all.”

“Nervous,” she muttered. “Next is…”

“Ah...yeah…” He patted her shoulder gracelessly. “I- you’ll be okay. We’ll be there in case something goes badly. Just focus on gettin’ the Gourmet.”

“Right. Right. Be back soon.”

Yolskja gave her an almost dejected smile. “You’ll do fine, sunshine. We have faith in you.”

“Thanks.”

“We have your back,” Babette added. “Now go on, then, and have fun!”

Hekatah nodded a third time, and then, without saying another word, she left. 

There was a kind of weakness in her legs and stomach that she was not used to. Even when it had come to her being around Astrid- she had never felt quite this vulnerable. It was like sickness- like droops, or black-heart blight. It was something she wouldn’t have associated with a contract. 

She had called it nervousness, but she wasn’t sure that was accurate. Was it excitement? Or was she just ill...?

A gust of wind blew her layers about her, and she held onto her hood with one hand. The Pale seemed more foreboding than ever before. Or was it her imagination?

A part of her wished she had not returned the cloak Arnbjorn let her borrow, but in the aftermath of the Falkreath Sanctuary, she was swirling with emotions and she didn’t need the reminder of him. 

Maybe that was what made her feel so different. She couldn’t deny that his actions back there had been far beyond any other interaction between them before. Her heart fluttered to think of it, but at the same time, guilt permeated her.

She had loved Astrid, and she loved Arnbjorn. But she had never considered the idea of that love being reciprocated. She had never prepared for it. And she wasn’t sure she wanted it. 

On a personal level, the idea of, after years of pining, someone looking at her the same way she looked at them was exciting. But she had spent so long pushing away her feelings, learning to love the love between Astrid and Arnbjorn as much as she adored them individually, and accepting some kind of advance felt like betrayal.

If she could have only talked to Astrid again...have some kind of reassurance that it wasn’t wrong to move on...it felt like it had been decades, and yet mere weeks since her death at the same time. It felt too soon. It would always feel too soon. 

And yet...it was not unlikely that the Emperor would take her down with him. She knew this. They all knew it. Nobody wanted to talk about it, but the moment the Emperor was killed, there was no small chance that the Oculatus would avenge him. If she did not take the sliver of an opportunity to finally reveal her truth, it was entirely possible that she never would.

Maybe. Maybe before then…

It wasn’t like any of it would matter if she died, though. Perhaps it was better that way, that if she died she would say nothing, and if she lived she would confess.

Yes, that sounded good. 

She would do that. But first...the Gourmet. She needed his identity. 

The Nightgate Inn was one she had been to before, but she had never encountered the Orc she now knew was the famous chef. She had heard of him- the innkeeper had mentioned him once. But he was reclusive. She understood why now. 

The innkeeper had said he liked to go down to a nearby lake. So Hekatah went there too, and waited, sitting on the dock and staring into the crystalline water. It was so pure, so clear...she could see the slaughterfish darting about beneath her amongst the sparse weeds, and at the very bottom, she could see clams and mussels. Somewhere, the faint song of a nirnroot plant echoed over the ripples, and a crow cawed in the distance. It was a beautiful ecosystem.

“Excuse me. May I ask you to move?”

She didn’t look back at the speaker. The voice was deep, gravelly, and distinctly Orcish, although its accent was almost falsely refined.

“Are you Balagog gro-Nolob?”

Her question put him on edge at once. “Who are you? Why do you ask?”

“Have you ever heard of the Nerevarine?”

“Excuse me?”

A blustering gale swept over the lake, bending the nearby trees and scattering pine needles across the surface. 

“The Nerevarine,” she repeated herself after a beat of silence. 

“What about her?”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“She disappeared just before the Oblivion Crisis?”

Hekatah shook her head and rose to her feet, still with her back to Balagog. “Wrong. She was murdered. Her daughter and husband were left behind. Her body was dumped into the ocean to prevent a proper burial, so that she could not tell her surviving family what happened to her.”

He said nothing. She could sense his tenseness. 

“Do you know who murdered her?”

“N-no?”

“The Empire.” Finally, she turned, and her wide white eyes met his gaze unwaveringly. “The Emperor Uriel Septim had his Blades dispose of her.”

Balagog stepped back, now visibly sweating. “Why are you telling me this? How do you know who I am?”

“Did you know she had a granddaughter? She was born many years after the Nerevarine’s death, but that assassination impacted her everyday life.”

“You’re starting to frighten me. What do you want??”

“Simple. I want the current Emperor to die...and I want him to be killed by the Gourmet.”

"What? The Emperor? But I...oh.” He began to back away as terror set into his wizened visage. “Oh, by the gods, no. No, you can't do this. You can't!"

“Oh, but I can. And I will.”

She drew her daggers, and before the Gourmet could call for help or raise a hand in self-defense, his throat had been cut, and his body laid over the side of the dock, the blood dripping into the water and rousing the slaughterfish. His fingers brushed the surface, and as more and more blood flowed from the fatal wound, the fish became rowdier and rowdier. 

“You want some food?” Hekatah crouched next to the corpse, took his wrist and wriggled it to tease the wildlife. “You guys want it? You can eat him for me?”

Razor sharp teeth crunched through the bones of his digits, leaving stubs where the fingers that had written _Uncommon Taste_ had been, and she laughed. “Oooh, you’re hungry, huh? Tell you what. I’ll take what I need from him, and then you can eat the body, okay? Just be patient for a sec, okay?”

One of the fish leapt out and snapped at her wrist. “I said be patient, okay?”

Quickly, she rummaged through his pockets, until she found a folded up piece of parchment. In neat, calligraphy penmanship, followed by the date, time and place of the planned dinner, it read:

_By order of His Eminence, Emperor Titus Mede II, _

_The possessor of this Writ of Passage - known throughout the Empire as the celebrated chef and author the "Gourmet" - is granted full and unrestricted access to any areas, information, or supplies necessary to fulfill the duty of the Emperor's personal cook._

She scoffed. “He really spends his time with shit like this instead of taking care of the people...all empires are the same, I suppose. Fuck you.”

The Gourmet’s body shifted slightly as she kicked it. “Fuck you too. Get eaten.”

With effort, she rolled the corpse into the lake, and immediately, the school of slaughterfish descended upon it. The water began to bubble, like a cauldron brewing a frightful poison, and more and more of the creatures were called by the frantic feasting frenzy. Clothes, flesh, bone, marrow, nothing remained after mere moments. The few scraps that floated upwards amidst the frenzy were immediately consumed. As if evaporated, Balagog gro-Nolob had been erased from Nirn, with only a faint pinkish tinge floating about the scavenging fauna giving any indication that he had existed at all. 

And then the reservoir was calm again. Satisfied, the slaughterfish sank to the floor, nestled together like a twisted family, and the blood dissipated as the current swept it away. 

Truly, the Gourmet had served his last meal.


	64. Sixty-Four

The Brotherhood was awaiting her anxiously when she arrived. An air of somberness had fallen over the Sanctuary. The severity of the contract had finally settled in for real. This was it.

“So,” said Babette. “It’s done?”

Hekatah produced the Writ of Passage wordlessly, and Babette shivered. 

“Then it’s time for you to finish things.”

“It is…” Hekatah swallowed hard.

“What are we going to do about…” Yolskja trailed off, but the others understood. 

“I trust Hekatah. I trust her to be able to defend herself. If she gets overwhelmed, she can come find us, and we’ll help her,” Arnbjorn said. “The note says the dinner is happening in Castle Dour…”

“There’s a bridge leading from there to the outskirts of Solitude. If you find yourself unable to fend off the guards, run across the bridge, and we’ll be waiting.” Babette rested her hand on Hekatah’s arm. “There’s dense forests just outside. We’ll wait for you there. If we see you in distress, we’ll come help. Arnbjorn and I will be closest, since our faces are the least known, but Yolskja and Krogan will come too. We won’t let you down.”

Hekatah nodded. “Thank you…”

“There is one other thing…before we leave. I want to talk to you about one other thing.” Krogan added, and he took Hekatah by the shoulders, his eyes firmly fixed on her scars. “I know this is about your grandmother. I know this is about your homeland and the Empire’s impact on your family. But...please don’t give away your identity. I don’t care how much you want him to know who killed him.”

He paused, and the next sentence sounded forced. “I...when he goes to the Void, I’m sure he’ll know. But don’t show him your face.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He released her. “Good. Good. Then...we took the liberty of packing. We should go ahead and make for Solitude right away.”

“You’re right…” Hekatah folded the Writ and slid it up her sleeve. “If we just stay waiting around...it’s not worth just dwelling on things.”

Yolskja frowned slightly. “You say this like you’re dreading it…”

“It’s just such a big contract...I can’t help but wonder...if we’ve gotten in over our heads. If this was a mistake.”

“We’re too far in to back out now. Chin up, sunshine. Do it for the Nerevarine.”

“Yes...of course. For me grandmother. Alright.” Hekatah took her bag from Krogan. “Then…let’s go.”

There was very little talk along the route. Much of the time was spent in taut silence, with each member constantly checking over their shoulders for any sign of danger. When it came time to rest, Babette and Arnbjorn did not sleep, but sat guard outside the tents, fangs gleaming in the light of the two moons and bright eyes watching the every shift in the foliage. 

“Do you think we should have done it?” Arnbjorn’s voice was hoarse and quiet, almost atypically so. “Accepted the contract. Accepted the Night Mother.”

Babette did not answer immediately. She stared into the darkness, those uncanny orange irises fixated on something only she could see, and in the moments between his question and her response, the only sounds audible were crickets chirping in the night and the rhythmic breathing of their sleeping Family. 

Long moments passed between them, and then finally she replied. “I was in the Brotherhood when we followed the Old Ways, and I was in the Brotherhood when we abandoned them. I would have laid down my life for the Night Mother in the Third Era, and I would have done the same for Astrid in the Fourth.”

“If we hadn’t abandoned the Old Ways, we wouldn’t even exist.”

“I know. I was there.”

“I just can’t help but feel like this is some kind of ploy.”

Babette tilted her head back. “I guess the answer to your question...do you trust Hekatah?”

“What kind of-”

“Do you?”

“Of course!”

“Do you think she can kill? Do you think she can take care of herself?”

“I would never suggest…”

“Then we’re doing the right thing. I don’t think it was just your feelings that led you to give the leadership to her. I think it was meant to happen.” Babette gave him a sly glance. “I think Hekatah was meant to be the one to bridge the gap between the Old Ways and the Brotherhood as it is now.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you disagree?”

“I don’t know if she would see it the same way.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But...here’s the other thing, Arnbjorn. If you’re worried about the way she sees it,” Babette turned her face towards him, making unnervingly steady eye contact. “Night Mother and Old Ways, or no Night Mother or Old Ways, this contract means the world to her. So if that’s what you’re concerned about...don’t be.”

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you think of it?”

“The last time an Emperor was assassinated was the beginning of the Oblivion Crisis...I was just a young girl of one hundred...yet I remember it like it was yesterday.” Her little mouth grew wide with a wicked grin, a grin that Gabriella had complimented her on many times. “The chaos...the fear...the uncertainty...I can’t wait to see it happen all over again. And what’s better...the Empire thinks we’re wiped out. This will be the shock of a lifetime.”

“The _Emperor_...she gets to kill the bloody _Emperor_. I’m so jealous.” Arnbjorn leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Gods, she better enjoy it. She better make a scene. The Emperor of all people…”

“I’m sure she’ll be dramatic about it. She always is.”

There was another long pause, and in the distance, an owl hooted. 

“Um…”

“Yes?”

Arnbjorn shifted. “How are you? We haven’t...really talked in a while.”

“Things are looking up,” Babette said simply. “When you’re three hundred years old, you learn to deal with grief. I miss everyone so very much. But...I’ve had many friends die. From old age, failed contracts, or- the government.”

“How do you cope?” 

“It’s a fact of life, especially for someone like me. I just know that, at the end of my days, they’ll be waiting for me in the Void.”

“You and Krogan...sometimes you say things that are a lot smarter than what I would think of.”

“You tend to think with your heart. Nothing wrong with that.”

Arnbjorn grunted. “That’s why Astrid was the one who did the planning.”

“You know, Arnbjorn…” Babette had that look, the same look she had when she was taking delight in reminiscing about a contract, or teasing her Family, and a sinking feeling set in. “I think Astrid would be very happy with how far you’ve come in the past year. And I think that if you wanted to, oh, I don’t know, fall in love with someone new, she would be fine with that.”

Arnbjorn jolted upright. “Hey! What are you-?”

“Shh! You’ll wake the others!” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m hungry. I’m going to go find some poor bastard to feed on.”

She stood up and patted his arm, began to leave, and then halted. “Oh, and by the way...I’m glad we were able to talk some.”


	65. Sixty-Five

The sky was beginning to turn pink, and the stars were just starting to peek over the forests of Haafingar, and a cool breeze swept through the pines. Mostly, the world was quiet, save for the rustling of needlelike leaves and the occasional bird chirping off in the woods.

“How do you feel?” A dragon spoke to a chef, cupping her face in her hands. “Are you alright?”

“I won’t lie,” said the Dunmer, quivering beneath the Dovah’s touch. “I’m frightened. But even if this was never what I thought I would find meself doing...I think this is what I was meant for. Me grandmother and grandfather were enemies of the Empire. It’s only right that I finish what they started.”

“That’s right, sunshine. Now then. Go on.”

A hulking giant of a Nord cleared his throat. “Um. Before you head out. Hekatah. You get to kill the _Emperor_. The bloody fucking _Emperor_. So promise me something, tidbit. You’re gonna make the best out of it, and have fun.”

“Arnbjorn, I wouldn’t dream of squandering this kind of opportunity. But-” She shot a look at her Orc companion. “I’ll be careful. I won’t give meself away.”

“Come back to us in one piece, okay? We’ll be right where we said if you need anything.” The Nord moved in a way that almost suggested he was going to take her hand, but he chose not to and stepped back.

“Of course. I should go. I don’t want to be late…”

Inside Solitude’s walls, the streets were almost silent as the people began winding down their days. Children were being called inside to eat, shopkeepers were closing their stands, and even the hawks circling overhead almost seemed lazy. 

Little attention was given to the masked and hooded woman walking through town. Perhaps odd strangers were common in the capital. Perhaps she was simply not noticed. Either way, all but one man paid no mind to her. 

“Castle Dour is off-limits until further notice,” he said, and silently, the woman handed him her Writ. 

“What’s this?” he demanded. “Possession of these papers...the Gourmet...oh, by the Eight, the Gourmet! Forgive me, madam, we had no idea who to expect...and you don’t exactly look like a chef…”

“I can’t have just anyone seeing me face, sir. The Gourmet’s identity is a very well-kept secret for a reason.”

“Yes...well, don’t let me keep you! Gianna, the castle chef, has been awaiting you in the kitchens. She’s overjoyed to meet you.”

“Very well.” The Gourmet swept into the building and wound her way to the kitchen, where an all-too-excited Imperial stood expectantly. “Gianna.”

“Oh! The Gourmet! You’re…” She leaned in slightly. “A Dark Elf? I...well, I just can't believe the Gourmet is a Dark Elf. How difficult it must have been for you in Morrowind. The food there is…”

“Far better than someone of your mindlessness might think,” said Hekatah coldly and curtly. “Which one of us is the Gourmet, now?”

The Imperial shrank away shamefully with a flush on her cheeks. “Of course, of course...I- I’m sorry…”

“Nevermind it. I’m here to cook, not talk.”

“Oh! Yes, but of course. Ahem. The Emperor has requested your signature dish - the Potage le Magnifique. I've taken the liberty of getting it started. But the cookbook only says so much, and everyone makes the Potage differently. I would be honored if we could make it...the Gourmet's special way. The base broth is already boiled. We can get started right now.”

“You already started it?” Hekatah raised an eyebrow. “Allow me to...check it.”

She walked over to the bubbling pot and tasted a small sample. It was, fortunately, quite close to what she had made practicing the real Gourmet’s recipes. 

“Is it okay?” Gianna asked nervously. Hekatah nodded, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “So... which ingredient should we add next?”

“A sweetroll is my personal favourite ingredient.”

"Ooohh...how decadent. I never would have guessed it. What next?"

“A splash of mead, the kind with juniper berries in it.”

Gianna grinned. “Ah, of course. I suspected as much.”

“At least you understand me recipes more than you understand me homeland. Now add a sprig of Nirnroot.”

"Really?” She bounced on her toes with barely-contained excitement. “Oh, I use Nirnroot as a special seasoning all the time as well! What a wonderful idea. Okay. Now what?"

“Finally...I want you to add a single Septim.”

The Imperial blinked. "A Septim? As in...a gold coin?”

“Did I stutter? Use your head, Gianna.” 

Gianna paused, her finger resting against her jaw thoughtfully, and then she nodded. “Ah, I see now. That would give the Potage le Magnifique a slightly metallic - but delicious - aftertaste. Simply brilliant. I have to say, the stew seems done. Add anything else, and we may dilute the distinct flavors. So... is that it?"

“It is. Let it simmer for just a moment, and then we can present this dish to His Eminence.”

Gianna hovered about the Potage like a hyperactive puppy, and when the time came to serve the dish, she almost forgot to wear gloves when lifting the hot metal. “Ow! Well! It’s ready! And if I may say so...it has been an honor, getting a chance to prepare a meal with, well...the best chef in the entire Empire. I'll carry the stew pot, and lead the way up to the dining room. I'm sure the Emperor and his guests are dying to meet you."

A jitteriness set into Hekatah’s veins as she followed the woman. This was it. This really, truly was her moment. Her heart felt like it was pulsing against her throat, her breaths coming fast and short. 

Pull it together, she told herself, and her fingers twitched towards her daggers. Quickly, as she grew closer to the diner, she sent up a prayer to the Three. 

The Emperor sat at the head of the table closest to the door, casually dismissing his guests’ concerns about his safety despite the presence of not only guards but the Oculatus, and Hekatah could have exploded with anticipation. 

“Good evening, Your Eminence,” she said, and her voice wavered. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt like he knew his fate. “I am honoured beyond words to serve you.”

“Aha!” he exclaimed with a smile that made her blood boil. “Here we are. Honored guests, I present to you - the Gourmet! Ah, the Potage le Magnifique. So delicious. My friends, as Emperor, I of course reserve the right of first taste."

He sat politely with his hands in his lap and Hekatah hovering at his shoulder as Gianna served the nobles, and then him. 

“I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time,” he said with another smile, and then raised his spoon to his lips. “Oh...oh, how marvelous! Just delicious! It is everything I had hoped it would be. Please, everyone. Enjoy."

His spoon clinked against the side of his bowl, and then, finally, she snapped. The release of all her rage and hatred not only towards him, but towards all of the Empire and all of the Penitus Oculatus, was the most fulfilling emotion she had ever experienced. The knives seemed to jump into her hands, giving nobody any time to do anything, and she leapt forth, stabbing, tearing, ripping, shredding, covering her hands in his blood. There were screams, and the sound of swords being drawn, but none of that meant anything to her. It only took a moment, but that moment was the longest, most glorious moment of her life. 

And then something dawned on her. She had not been attacked. She had not felt blades on her back or gauntlets on her skin. Slowly, she rose and turned back towards the guests. 

“I knew it,” said Gaius Maro, and her whole world felt like it was crumbling around her. “I _knew_ it! You damn Brotherhood cutthroats just don’t know when to stop!”

“H-how…?”

He sneered. “Did you really think I’d fall for your stupid tricks? Did you really think I’d believe Faida and Salvarus would betray me? _Did you really think I did not know who the Gourmet was?_ Your kind is low, but I didn’t realize how stupid you could be until I discovered that fake note you left with Faida and Salvarus. So I told the Emperor. And he deployed a decoy, whom you have savagely murdered.”

“No...no…damn you!”

“You killed my father. You killed my best friend. You killed my Faida. And now, I’m going to kill you!” He raised his sword arm. “The Emperor will not be next! Get her!”

Pandemonium. Gianna and the nobles fled, and the guards and Oculatus descended upon the Gourmet. An indescribable rage rose up inside her, like the magma in Red Mountain, a rage that she had not felt in many months, the rage of the deaths of her Family and beloved, the rage of her grandmother’s murder, the rage of her grandfather’s pain, the rage of her homeland’s decimation, it all exploded from within, turning her vision black, and when she came to her wits, there were not bodies on the floor, but a sea of sticky, viscous red. It covered her, from her face to her boots, and it covered the ground, and the walls, and the tables and chairs. 

She did not know exactly what she had done to so thoroughly disassemble her assailants. But whatever it was, it was beautiful. And it was deserved. 

Her work, however, was not done. She had seen the grand Katariah, bobbing in the sea outside. The true Emperor...he had to be there. She would find him. And if it was the last thing she did, if it drained the very last bit of energy from her body and heart and soul, she would kill him.


	66. Sixty-Six

There was a split second between when the Castle Dour door opened and when Hekatah stepped out. And that second was perhaps the most anxious second of Arnbjorn’s life.

Then he saw her, and both dread and excitement gripped him. She was covered in blood. He didn’t know if it was hers. She stood there in the moonlight, and no-one pursued her, but there was an emptiness to the air around her.

“What’s going on?” Babette murmured. “Did she…?”

Arnbjorn rose to his feet. “I’m going to go talk to her. Something feels off.”

Hekatah, it seemed, had not noticed Arnbjorn emerge from the woods. She was walking slowly, carefully, away from the castle and towards the docks. Her steps were torpid and short at first, and then longer and faster, until she broke into a sprint, and Arnbjorn caught up to her in the shadows of Vittoria Vici’s now run-down harborside shop.

When she looked up at him, there was exhaustion in her eyes, but her gaze was firm and steady. “Arnbjorn.”

“What happened?” he demanded. His hand wanted to reach for her face, but he gripped his wrist and held it still. “Is that…?”

“It’s not mine.” She threw her mask and blood-soaked outer layers aside disdainfully, and he noticed with relief and awe that she was entirely unharmed, without a single scrape on her lithe body. Her words were laced with hatred when she added, “they knew. The son...Maro’s fetcher of a son- he put it together. He expected me. I killed a decoy.”

“Then…”

Hekatah shook her head with determination. “It’s not done. I haven’t failed. I refuse to fail. The real Emperor hasn’t left Skyrim. He’s still on his boat. I know it, and I’m going to kill him.”

“Alone…?”

She moved closer. “Yes. But...I’m glad you came.”

She took his hand, nestling her much smaller palm in his, and looked away, a vibrant blush creeping up her face and heat bubbling up beneath her skin. “I- the Emperor is expecting me, I’m sure. He hasn’t heard from Gaius. I’m sure he suspects...so...just in case...I-I wanted to tell you something. I wasn’t gonna...because...because I felt guilty but...I wanted to say that...that I...”

“I already know.” The words came out shorter than he meant for them to, but it didn’t seem that she cared.

“Then…” she raised her head, staring up at him with subdued hope. “Do you…?”

“I- yes.”

It wasn’t a romantic or intense confession. But it served the purpose it needed to. She threw her arms around him and rested her head against his chest for just a moment, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. 

“I had planned to tell you...afterwards. But since things went south…”

“You’ll be fine.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “You should go on. But for the love of Talos...come back to me alive.”

She pulled away and laid her hand on his cheek. “I won’t die, then.”

“Good luck.” He was not the kind of person who expressed emotion easily. It took a lot to gain his trust and when he had been with Astrid, it had been many years before he finally uttered those three words. But she was taking on an unimaginable challenge, and...in case she didn’t return, he felt the need to tell her. “I...I love you.”

Those big soulful eyes stared up at him, and she smiled widely, a smile that resembled the grins she gave when she was about to snap, but much milder and full of fondness. “I love you too. I’ll be back.”

And so she left, blushing and flustered and elated beyond words, and ready to finally finish the contract of a lifetime. The entrance she found to board the ship through was that to the storeroom, where she crouched in the shadows as her heartbeat flitted in her breast. Large, poorly lit, and devoid of life, it was the kind of room that she would have raided in her Cyrodiil days for coin and supplies. Even then, perhaps sheerly out of habit, she made certain to pocket an unattended coinpurse when she crept across the wooden floorboards. 

Every single person on board would die. She would be certain of that. Silently, without even knowing they were dead. Except for the Emperor- he would know the name of his assassin, and why she had been selected to be the one to end his life.

The first kill was a sailor asleep in his bed- not someone that was a threat, nor someone that was her enemy, but someone who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and paid the ultimate price for his mistake. She cut his throat and left him to bleed. The second was an Agent who had his back to his bedroom door- an Agent who represented everything that Hekatah loathed. Her blade impaled his neck from behind and she lowered his body to the floor, closing the door behind her. And so it continued. Sailors, Agents, stowaways, passengers, she didn’t care. Not a single soul could be left alive. She wouldn’t allow it.

This was her element. This was her job. This was her background and this was what she knew more intimately than anything else. She had been raised to blend with the darkness, completely and utterly undetected, taking what she wanted as she wanted it, and leaving behind nothing but a storm of carcasses hitting the ground like rain.

She did not let them see her face, even though she had taken her mask off. She wanted that to be reserved for the Emperor, and only the Emperor. So she was diligent in her work, taking her time, luring them to her one by one if she did not find them alone with some kind of sound or taunt, killing them before they could cry for help, before they could even see the woman who plunged her woe deep into their hearts. The corpses piled up, and her weapon was filled with blood. One after another, one after another, almost rhythmically, to the beat of the boat as it swayed in the waves, she slew them. 

They were nameless, faceless, means to an end- she saw them the same way they saw their provinces. She cared nothing for them, nor for her feats in murdering them, but only for what they could give her. And all she wanted- the only thing they could give up- was the Emperor. One after another, one after another, one by one, one by one, mindlessly, metrically, below deck and above deck, some killed by magic, some killed by hand, their lives sapped away into her palms, or burnt into a charred husk, or violently cut short with sharp, enchanted metal.

One of them had a key. She did not know who he was, but he had a key. And he was dead. And she continued. One by one, one by one. One after another, one after another.

Her heart still pounded. Not only from finally reconciling her emotions with Arnbjorn, but from the excitement that was building up in her veins with every dead imperialist. Every dead Agent was a strike against the Empire that had killed her grandmother and ruined her country. The Blades, the Penitus Oculatus- they had different names, but they were the same, really. They served the same wretched kingdom, the same wretched king, just different cogs in the same machine that would have let Morrowind die in Daedric flames for the slightest profit. The same machine that would have let the Blight take the Dunmer if they had not gained from keeping the Elves alive. The same machine that threw Archmagister Lileth of House Telvanni’s disgraced and brutalized body into the sea so that her husband and child could not commune with her. The Septims, the Medes, and whoever would come next, it didn’t matter. They were all the same. 

Killing Titus Mede would be the same as killing Uriel Septim. Killing the Oculatus was the same as killing the Blades. Same oppressive purpose, different name, and she killed them one by one, one after another, the manic zeal growing stronger with each death. It was building up inside her, that passion, that hate, and though she had been disheartened at her original failure, she now found the deception fueled her desire even more. 

The Dark Brotherhood was not to be trifled with, and neither was Telvanni’s lost heir, and she would make that as clear as the crystal waters lapping at the sides of The Katariah. 

When she found herself at the Emperor’s quarters, she felt as if she had been drowning, and now she could breathe again. The key she had taken unlocked the door, and she did not bother to hide herself as she entered, her pulse hammering in her ears and her daggers almost singing with the joy of what they were about to taste.

“And once more, I prove Commander Maro a fool,” said the true Titus Mede II when he laid his aged, unfazed eyes on her. “I told him when he planned that raid that you can’t stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could. And I see now that you were not motivated by greed or bloodthirst alone...but that the rumours of your family still holding hatred for the Empire are true, Hekatah.”

His calmness enraged her. She did not lash out, but her body trembled, and for a brief moment, she summoned Lileth. “You recognize me then. Do you recognize her?”

The man walked around his desk with his hands politely clasped in front of him. “The Nerevarine. Lileth. Your grandmother, Hekatah Archundael. Murdered by the Blades and Emperor Uriel Septim. Although I’m sure such details are trivial to you.”

The ghost vanished and Hekatah raised her blades in front of herself. “Even if you’re not the one who ordered her death, or the one who carried it out, and even if the Penitus Oculatus replaced the Blades, you’re still the same as the Septims and the Blades. You’ve done nothing to fix what your predecessors did. Not to Morrowind, not to the Houses, and not to me family.”

“I see. So you’ve chosen to become an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood to bring the Empire down.”

“No. The scraps of information the Empire has been allowed to have about me and the assumptions you’ve made are not the full truth. But it’s not important why I chose this path. What is important is that it led me to murdering you. And finally bringing some form of closure to both me grandfather, and me Family.”

“I see, then.” The Emperor sighed. "You and I have a date with destiny, it would seem. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm? Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder...would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?"

Hekatah snarled, wracked with a sudden, vitriolic malice that almost threw her off balance. “I’d rather use these knives to off meself than give you any kind of favour! Don’t you get it? This is me revenge! This is me paying you gods-damned bastards for the pain I’ve been through and the pain me grandfather’s been through and the pain all of Morrowind has been through! You’re an idiot if you think I’d spare even a second to give you some fucking final request!”

He blinked, as if the outburst had somehow surprised him, and the fake gentleness on his countenance dropped into cold disdain. “Tsk. How unfortunate. I had hoped you would honour an old man's dying wish. Well, let's be done with it then.”

“I’d never honour anything from you Imperial dogs,” she shot back. But he ignored her, and instead of responding he simply turned his back, and slowly walked towards the window, where he rested his palms on the sill. Hekatah stood motionless, in both parts enraged and baffled by his nonchalant attitude. 

“Well? I won’t fight you, so we may as well get this over with,” he urged her cooly, staring out at the aurora borealis. “Come now, don’t be shy. You haven’t come this far just to stand there gawking.”

“Fine. Sithis take you. May you suffer in the Void the way me Family and Astrid did.”

And thus she took her Blade of Woe and the ebony dagger Cicero had once wielded and plunged one deep into his back and the other into his neck. Despite himself, he inhaled sharply, and she pressed her ear against his body, listening as the thumping of his heart became weaker and weaker until it beat once more and fell silent, and she dropped the corpse unceremoniously. Though the kill had not taken much effort, she stood over him, breathing hard, as if she had just emerged victorious from a war.

“Damn you. Damn you.” She stomped on his trachea. “This was so anticlimactic…_damn you_!!” 

He said nothing, even in death taunting her with the serenity that radiated from his carcass, despite the blood dripping from his mouth and pouring from his throat and spine, and she kicked him again, before falling to her knees, her skin slick with perspiration, and tears stinging her eyes. “Damn it! Damn it!”

She ran her fingers through her hair desperately and the tears fell to her lap, leaving dark splotches in the fabric of her robes. “Damn it! How dare you! How dare you!”

Trembling, she raised the Blade of Woe high above her head, and tore through the dead man, leaving just enough left to identify him with certainty. “Damn it! At least they’ll have no doubts who did it…and at least...I’ve gotten vengeance.”

She took his now-tarnished brooch from his cloak and soaked her hand in his blood until her whole palm was coated in bright, sticky red, and pressed her hand against the wood of the cabin, so that when the guards finally realized something was wrong and entered his chambers, above the dead Emperor they would find the Black Hand printed in scarlet, and beneath it, in dripping letters, the phrase ‘Hail Sithis’.

And then she broke the window Titus Mede had died in front of and climbed out onto the deck, the cold breeze coming from the sea tossing her hair and robes about her, and the stars glistening down on the gilded bow, which had taken the form of a beautiful woman enveloped in thin, windswept cloth who leaned out towards the open ocean with her empty eyes locked on a shining scimitar embedded in the bowsprit. Impulse gripped the Dunmer and she began to walk along the deck towards the thin spar. Balancing precariously, shunted by the maritime gusts, she strode towards the weapon and pulled it from the boat. Prize in hand, blood in her hair, she raised her finger towards the open sky and from its tip shot a streak of fire that exploded upwards into the heavens and erupted, scattering embers across the night that slowly flitted downwards, and as the sparks flew she leaned back and fell, plummeting into the icy water and swimming to shore as the people of Solitude began running to investigate.

Arnbjorn awaited her there, tucked out of the sight of the docks alongside the rest of the Brotherhood, and when she walked out of the surf he whisked her up into a tight hug and kissed the top of her head. “You’re back, and you’re alive. So it’s done, then.”

“Congratulations, sunshine,” Yolskja murmured, rubbing Hekatah’s back. “You did it…come on, let’s get you somewhere warm and dry...” 

The werewolf set Hekatah down with a broad, sharp-toothed grin after kissing her head a second time. “I can’t believe it.”

“You did great,” said Babette simply with a smile, and Krogan nodded silently.

“It wasn’t quite what I expected, but...I truly couldn’t be happier.” Hekatah’s voice trembled, like she might begin to cry again. “He’s dead. The Emperor of Tamriel is dead. And I’m the one who did it. I never dreamed…”

“It’s amazing,” Yolskja breathed. “You really did something incredible tonight...I’m so proud of you.”

“They’ll know it was us. I left the Black Hand for them to find...the Dark Brotherhood is going to be a household name again. And now there’s just one thing left to do…”


	67. Sixty-Seven

“The Emperor is dead. Emperor Titus Mede II is dead by the Black Hand of Sithis.”

The quiet voice sent Motierre tumbling out of his seat and scrambling backwards with his heart racing in his chest. He had not heard nor seen the assassin arrive, and he knew that she had not entered through the door. He had been sitting with his back against the wall, watching everything around him like a hawk, only leaving for a quick moment to recieve the innkeeper’s announcement that the Emperor had been slain, yet there she was, cloaked in black, just like in Volunruud, staring at him with those cold white eyes, and he would have been none the wiser if she had not spoken. For a moment as he looked up at her, his mouth moved silently without a single sound coming out.

“Y-yes! I know! I know! I received the news not moments ago!” he finally managed to choke out the words as he staggered to his feet with painful, nervous laughter bubbling up in his throat like nails. “This is glorious! My friend, you may not realize it, but you have served the Empire, indeed all of Tamriel, in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

Beneath the rippling midnight robes, he saw her stiffen, and that alien gaze grew narrow. Icy fear struck his heart and he swiftly sought to appease her.

“Ah, but you care little for politics, am I right? You want money! And money you shall have!” He felt he was speaking in an almost comically high-pitched tone, like a jester trying to placate an ill-tempered king, but he could hardly control his actions, let alone his voice. “Your payment waits for you at a dead drop. It is inside an urn, in the very chamber where we first met, in Volunruud. Now please, go. Collect your money, and let us never look upon one another again. Our business, thank the gods, is concluded."

She did not move. She did not leave. 

And Motierre began to sweat. 

“If you’ll just...get going now…”

Still nothing. She was as still and emotionless as a statue. 

The sweat trickled down his neck. 

“Please...get going now. We’re finished.”

Nothing. Just that unholy glare biting through his skin. 

“Oh, for the love of Mara, go already!” He regretted the outburst immediately, and more so when the murderer drew closer to him with a strange glint in her glower.

“Our business...is not quite yet concluded, actually. There is...another thing, Motierre.”

The sentence came very slowly, and very deliberately, enunciated very clearly. Her weapons remained at her hips, and her hands at her side, neither melee nor magic preparing to cut him down, but a sense of doom overtook him, and he found his breath becoming shaky. 

“You see, I have family history with your Empire. And I did not do this to serve the Empire of Cyrodiil. I did it to serve Morrowind, and me family.”

Like an arrow, the realization struck him. It was an insane conclusion, but there was no other possibility. Hers was not a face he had seen in person, but it was one that any high-ranking Imperial was familiar with- one that was listed as a potential threat, but had not been known to create issues for the Empire...until now. An unusually small Dark Elf with unusually wide eyes...a lineage of murder and assassinations...that joy when he had told her he wanted Titus Mede dead...it couldn’t be. He hadn’t ever anticipated...but there was no other option. The pieces were coming together and the picture they created was an ugly one. 

She reached up and tore away her mask, lowering her hood in the same swift movement. Deep, blue-gray skin, round pale lips, and a bright, opalescent stare...although scars now crossed her nose and cheeks and mouth, the appearance was still distinct, and he felt the air leave his lungs. 

“Aryon and the Nerevarine’s granddaughter…that’s why you agreed to the contract? H-How much planning went into this?! Was it your decision all along??”

Hekatah stepped even closer, almost right up against him, and he backed away further, bumping into the nightstand, and she stood on her toes to speak directly into his ear. “My name is Hekatah Archundael. I am the Listener. I was the one who was called to meet you, and I was the one who made the choice to take the contract. The Empire ruined me family and me homeland, killed the woman I loved more than anything in the world, and murdered me grandmother. I know you’ve been warned about me and Aryon. I know me grandfather was hunting the Blades before the Thalmor. And I know that it’s in me blood to continue along the path he and Lileth began.”

“Please,” Motierre pushed her away. “Please. I helped you get your revenge, didn’t I?”

“Here’s the thing, Motierre,” she spoke his name with a sickly sweetness, in a manner that he imagined spoiled honey would taste like, and traced her lips with her pinky finger. “Contract or not, you’re still on the Elder Council. And your motive was not to help anyone suffering under the Empire. Plus...”

Her hand rested on her waist above one of her daggers. “The Emperor’s men are the ones who murdered not only the love of me life, but me friends as well.”

“Please…”

She drew her blades, and covered her face once more, and he began to truly panic. “You can’t cry for help. I brought your letter with me. I’ll out you for who you really are after you’re dead. Face it, Motierre. The Empire is dying. And you’re dying with it.”

The knives sliced him open almost surgically, across his throat and down his chest, so cleanly he almost didn’t feel the pain. For a moment, he did not react, and then he fell backwards, bouncing off the end table and hitting the floor hard. His body lay there, growing warm and wet with blood, but his consciousness felt as though it still stood, and he looked at his killer in despair as he uttered his last words and she dropped his contract next to him. “But...we had...a deal…”

She offered him no respect. He had not even died before she had ransacked his pockets and taken everything of value and then vanished as quickly and mysteriously as she had arrived- and still he did not see where she had come from or where she had gone.

His soul hovered above his prone, bleeding form, and when the innkeeper finally opened the door to check on him, she screamed, and demanded to know who could have done this, and he tried in his dying breaths to whisper the name, but his lips would not move and all that came out was a gargling groan and the final thought he ever had was that she had been right after all, and in setting up the demise of the Emperor, he had inadvertently set up the demise of the Empire and with it, himself.


	68. Sixty-Eight

As a stone skipped across a lake creates pockets of ripples with every bounce, the news of the Emperor’s death and the certain survival of the Brotherhood created pandemonium with every province that recieved it.   
Solitude had entered lockdown almost immediately. None were permitted to leave or enter the capital of Skyrim. Gianna and the nobles who had witnessed the Gourmet’s first attempt were interrogated day in and day out as the few Imperial officers left made a desperate attempt to identify the killer. Imperial forces were spread thin, searching far and wide for the Dark Brotherhood, trying in vain to stamp them out once and for all. But they had failed in the past and would fail again and despite their best attempts they turned up nothing.

Further south, in Markarth, the Forsworn had mobilized as soon as their spies relayed the information to their leaders. The recent slaying of Jarl Igmund followed by a bloody path through the entire guard by a man who had let no one see his face and survive had opened a path for the resistance. With the Mournful Throne empty and the Emperor dead, the Reach was collapsing in on itself and though the Daughter of the Reach and King in Rags had not yet united all the tribes, they knew when a door had opened, and in earnest they took the opportunity, but not without silencing their final, longtime enemy in the coldest part of Skyrim. 

The Pale and Winterhold, isolated and sparsely populated as they were, felt the impact the least, but in Dawnstar, the innkeeper of Nightgate Inn had been arrested under suspicion of helping kill the true Gourmet, and had not been heard from since. Winterhold, with its proximity to Windhelm, witnessed in shock the clashing of Forsworn and Stormcloak warriors as Ulfric began to make his own move, only to be cut off in the Palace of Kings with the dual axes of the orphan he had created, killed by Alestrine in revenge for her family and in defense of the Reachfolk. A bloodbath ensued- most of the guard was slain, as were the smith, his apprentice, and Galmar and Rolf Stone-Fist. Following that, the Dunmer and Argonian residents put aside their differences and- rather forcibly- instated Brunwulf Free-Winter as their new king. 

Morthal couldn’t have cared less. It held no loyalty towards Empire or Stormcloak, nor did it have particular qualms with the Dark Brotherhood, for it was a town and Hold of great danger, and an assassins’ guild hardly compared to the beings that lurked in its swamps. Its Jarl had always prioritized her Hold over her province, and the news came as no surprise to her or her farsighted daughter. In their hearts, both of them knew the truth- and though Idgrod the Younger wrang her hands in worry till she received word from Krogan, neither acknowledged, not even to each other, that even as long ago as her part had been played, if not for the Jarl’s daughter, the Emperor would still be alive. 

In Whiterun, the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns were on the brink of warfare, but with both Titus Mede and Ulfric Stormcloak dead, neither had a cause to put stock in, and slowly, the conflict fizzled out into a kind of resigned, half-hearted rivalry. The young woman who ran the inn was under constant surveillance, and Jarl Balgruuf was in a frantic state trying to deal with both Motierre’s death and the incriminating paper in his city. Falkreath suffered similarly as its Stormcloak population searched for another leader to follow, and those who held memories of the Great War turned a suspicious eye to the ex-Thalmor resident.

And in Riften, certain Bosmer stormed about her cantine as her Guild watched her in mild concern and boredom.

“The Emperor...the bold bastards!” she fumed, and her lover cautiously put his hand on her shoulder before withdrawing with a sigh. “How ostentatious! This better catch up to them…”

Gesticulating wildly, she continued her rant. “Can you believe it?? The brass to try that...the brass to leave their insignia behind...in his blood! In his fucking blood!”

She rounded on a dark-scaled Argonian, who grinned nervously. “Did you know about this?! Since you were dumb enough to go back?! I swear to Y'ffre, if you knew about this!”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“What?”

“Osten...whatever the fuck. I don’t know what that means.”

“Nevermind what it means! Did you know about this?!”

“No! I- they didn’t tell me anything.”

Faedryl whipped around again and slammed her hands down on her desk before running one through her hair. “What a kill. What a contract. I can’t believe…”

“I mean...I’m happy for them…”

“Are you stupid?!” For a third time she spun on her heel and Spikes raised his palms in surrender. “After everything that happened?!”

“Hey, hey, I made up with most of them.”

“_Most_ of them?!”

“Krogan isn’t a forgiving guy.”

“So that Dunmer bitch-”

“She was the most repentant actually. I mean...it was just her and Arnbjorn and Krogan who wanted me dead...Yolskja and Babette were always chill.”

Faedryl threw her hands up in exasperation. “Vorstag! Vex! Are you hearing this nonsense?!”

“Faedryl, I mean this in the nicest way, but the Emperor dying and everything that followed is probably good news for us,” Vex said, not looking up from what she was doing. Faedryl snorted. 

“Yeah, sure, but it’s the _Brotherhood_. Do you really want to see them succeed?!”

Vex made eye contact. “Fae, your issue with the Dark Brotherhood isn’t even an issue with the Dark Brotherhood. You have it in for a couple members. We’ve worked with them for a long time.”

“And-!”

The Imperial cut her off. “One of those members is hardly more than a nuisance. If you had it in for the others because of Spikes, and he’s forgiven them, it’s a waste of your energy to keep this up.”

“Damn it, Vex.” Faedryl slumped down at her desk. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Spikes twiddled his thumbs. “So, um. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I was gonna ask if you’d mind it if I took off to D- to the new Sanctuary to congratulate them.”

“What do I look like, a fucking Black-Briar? I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

“I mean...you were just yelling at me about how it was stupid I’d even forgive them, so...I thought I’d ask.”

“It is stupid. But do whatever you want.” She sighed and raked her hands through her hair again. “You’re an adult. Do whatever. See if I care.”

“You’re so dramatic.”


	69. Sixty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't you dare fucking say it i swear to god

Ecstasy. Utter ecstasy. That was the closest way to describe the state of the Dark Brotherhood. The twenty thousand drakes they had been paid for the Emperor’s murder was nothing compared to the joy of the contract itself. For days, for over a week, they had been celebrating nonstop, their moods so untouchably high they almost didn’t quite seem like themselves, and the macabre decor lining the finally completed Sanctuary could almost have come across as out of place. Indeed, if one had not known they were cold-blooded contract killers, the scene would have been that of a blithe festival amongst friends. 

Krogan had hardly even threatened Spikes when he joined in the revelries, and Spikes had hardly been questioned, accepted into the Family as if nothing had ever gone wrong between him and the rest, and for once Arnbjorn and Yolskja weren’t at each other’s throats. Hekatah delighted in affection from both, proudly wearing the Emperor’s brooch on her chest and the stolen scimitar at her hip. She was puffed up, constantly giggling, almost drunk on the claim she now laid to sending the Cyrodilic Empire spiraling into madness, and quite close to drunk on the Dunmer drinks she had imported as well.

“The Emperor of Cyrodiil,” she laughed gleefully. “I’ve never been happier!”

Spikes eyed her with amusement as he poured himself a glass of wine. “You sure look it.”

“And why wouldn’t she be?” Babette chimed in. Nobody had asked, but it seemed certain her goblet was filled with blood, the origins of which were probably best left unknown. “That kind of assassination hasn’t been pulled off since...since the Mythic Dawn killed Uriel Septim! Even if she was...a bit less cautious than we expected in the first try.”

Hekatah shrugged. “I told Krogan I’d not show me face. Didn’t promise anything else.”

Krogan snorted. “You knew what I meant. And you did fine. You came out alive without anyone seeing you...even if you were stupid enough to get hypothermia…”

“Oh, fuck off!” Hekatah popped open another jar of sujamma with that wide grin her Family had grown to know and love. “I couldn’t leave the way I came, they’d see me.”

“I’m just surprised you made it to shore without your muscles seizing up.”

“Where do you think fire magic comes from, Krogan? I warmed me body up from the inside. It’s fine.”

“That doesn’t seem right...but okay.”

“As if Yolskja or Arnbjorn would’ve let anything happen,” Babette took a sip with a wicked smile. “Look at them, vying for her attention. I’ve never seen anything like it. Kids these days, spoiling their women...”

“She’s been my girlfriend for years, I’m not _vying_ for anything!” Yolskja argued, and Babette smirked.

Arnbjorn threw his arm around Hekatah’s shoulder and she leaned against him gleefully. “_She_ said you two had a casual thing. That’s the way I heard it.”

“And it’s been going on longer than you’ve even looked at her!”

Hekatah closed her eyes and drank deeply from her jar, not intervening in the banter. Rather, she seemed to be enjoying it, judging from the way the corners of her lips twitched, and Spikes suspected that she was encouraging the hotheaded Nords to rib at each other. 

“Can you imagine when the news hits the Imperial City?” Krogan interrupted. “It’ll be madness.”

Spikes drummed his nails on the table. “Maybe even a riot. That would be fun.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Hekatah, setting her drink down. There was a slight flush across her cheeks that could have been from either the alcohol or Arnbjorn hugging her against himself. “A year ago...we were all split up...hiding out in Morthal...in mourning...Arnbjorn and I were half-dead...our only contracts were worth almost nothing...and now we’re celebrating me killing the goddamn Emperor! The motherfucking- Emperor!”

Babette nodded solemnly. “It feels like it’s been so much longer, even to me. But in the end...we made it. And I know our Family is proud of us.”

“We avenged my wife and our Brothers and Sister,” Arnbjorn said, counting off on his fingers. “We destroyed that stupid clown. And then we got the contract of a fucking lifetime and we’re having a party while the Empire crumbles around us.”

“And you got yourself a new lover,” Spikes leaned away from Krogan when he spoke. “Despite the way you snapped at me.”

“Yeah, well, I had a dream.”

“What?”

“I had a dream about Astrid, and she told me to move on. So I decided it was fine.”

There was a moment of silence as the other members tried to discern whether or not he was joking, and then, unable to figure it out, they shrugged it off. His bizarre comment could do nothing to the euphoria running through their veins. 

“I’m sure Hekatah is very happy with you at any rate,” Spikes continued, and ducked a halfhearted swing from Krogan. “Hey!”

“I’m too drunk to kill you so just shut up.”

“You’ve had one glass and it wasn’t even full!”

“And if you keep talking I’ll break it over your head.”

“You’re being nice.”

“I am not.”

“You’re not killing me.”

“If you keep talking I will.”

“Boys, boys,” Babette waved her hand. “You’re both pretty. Stop fighting.”

Krogan leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, uh-huh.”

“I can’t believe you’re fussing with each other after what I just accomplished! I killed the Emperor! There’s gonna be pandemonium for ages!” Hekatah ran her fingers down her face. “They thought those Imperial swine had put us down but they were wrong! And now that sense of security is gone! Forever! And me grandmother is avenged and now me grandfather doesn’t have to worry about the Empire trying to fuck with Morrowind again...I wish he could know! Maybe I’ll go visit him...oh, there’s so many possibilities!”

She paused. “I just wish...that Astrid could have been here.”

“According to you not that long ago, she is,” Arnbjorn reminded her. “And I’m sure she’s proud of you.”

The redness in Hekatah’s complexion grew brighter. “I...yes, of course. Of course.”

She perked back up and her signature grin returned. “Then let’s keep celebrating.”

“That’s more like it!” Arnbjorn picked up his glass with an air of faux formality, and cleared his throat. “Ah...a toast, then. To the Listener, the Dark Brotherhood, and the death of the Empire.”

Spikes’ tail twitched. “You a Stormcloak now?”

“No! Just do it!”

“How dramatic,” Babette teased, but she, too, lifted her goblet, and slowly, one at a time, the rest followed. The jokey atmosphere became one of sincerity as the Brotherhood took time to honour their accomplishments, their comrades, and their new leader, and when they spoke, they spoke as a Family.

“To the Dark Brotherhood.”


End file.
